


What Lingers After Dusk

by AVirtoMusae



Category: A Song of Ice and Fire & Related Fandoms, A Song of Ice and Fire - George R. R. Martin, Game of Thrones (TV)
Genre: 5+1 Things, Alternate Universe - Reincarnation, Andal Invasion, Angst, Archaeology, Canon life, Dysfunctional Family, Faith of the Seven, Gambling, Gay Marriage, Genderbending in the fourth life, Homophobia, Jealous!Loras, King Renly, Lorenly forever, Love, Lys, M/M, Modern, Modern Era, Modern Valyria, Old Gods, One Happy Ending, Prostitutes, Reincarnation!fic, Septons and septas, Siege of Dragonstone, Targaryen!Renly, Time of the First Men, Valyria, Water Dancers, faceless men - Freeform, fem!Loras, fem!Renly, oldtown
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-06-13
Updated: 2015-07-18
Packaged: 2018-04-04 05:07:13
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 6
Words: 29,199
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4126470
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/AVirtoMusae/pseuds/AVirtoMusae
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>“I am his, and he is mine, from now and unto the end of time. As many times as it takes, we will live together, be happy, and have a happy ending together. I say this in the eyes of the gods, and may it be true in all good faith.” </p><p>Five times their life together ends in tragedy, and the one time it doesn't.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> All characters in the non-canon lives based on canon-age characters. It should be fairly obvious who is who, even though the names are changed for each life. So, just in case it isn't, as a head's up, in the first life, Wren is Renly, Lord is Loras, Milady is Margaery, Robin is Robert, and Sparrow is Stannis.

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Wren doesn’t remember what it’s like to have a home or a tribe. His parents died when he was just a baby and left him to be taken care of his brothers. After that, it had not taken the tribe long to decide that Robin and Sparrow were helpless at taking care of the young boy, so the chief’s wife had taken to taking care of him. Wren wishes he could remember that, wishes he could remember feeling even remotely wanted.

When he was around three, his eldest brother got in a spectacular argument with the chief’s son, and they were all thrown out. Since then, Wren was left with his two elder brothers who really have been clueless when it comes to raising their youngest brother.

Wren sighs as he trudges along behind his two brothers. He doesn’t talk much, but then, neither do they. Wren hates this life. He isn’t wanted and he is a burden. These are facts. Yet he keeps on walking because that is all he knows. He’s almost sixteen, and he can’t remember ever having been happy.

He wipes the sweat from his forehead and continues on. He tries to memorize the clouds or the tweeting of the songbirds, but at some point, the beauty just becomes irritating because everything is more full of joy than he is. He takes a breath and shuts his eyes as he walks even though he knows he is infinitely more likely to trip.

There is a rustle in the leaves, and though Wren would usually be content to ignore it, he doesn’t. His eyes snap open and he turns to look at the bush. He frowns when he sees what is on the other side. Four pairs of golden-brown eyes that remind him of honey are peering at him.

He coughs but doesn’t speak. Instead, he drops his weapon and takes a step closer to the bush. Since he and his brothers were exiled from their tribe, they have encountered other tribes too. Wren knows not to get close to the people in those, and half the time the attempts at socialization are disastrous. All in all, Wren isn’t sure why he is even trying with this pair.

He smiles at them, hoping that that will encourage them to come out and talk to him. He isn’t sure whether or not he is supposed to be surprised when they do come out. One is a boy and the other is a girl. The boy’s hair is really curly, and it sticks up in numerous odd angles as if he hasn’t done anything to it in weeks.

Wren stares at the boy for a moment, and when he comes to, he sincerely hopes that he wasn’t gaping. He’s confused. Robin is always talking about how fantastic it is to fuck a woman and how women are nature’s greatest creation, and Sparrow speaks of how men are supposed to be with women in order for reproduction to occur. So why is he, Wren, so intrigued by this boy who couldn’t be older than twelve?

He mentally shakes his head at himself. He can’t be. He must have gotten confused. He likes the girl, thinks her long, chestnut locks are the most stunning thing he’s ever seen. He must. After a long silence in which Wren stares at the pair and the pair stares back at him, the boy is the one to speak. “I’m Lord. This is Milady. And you are?”

Wren hesitates before smiling. “Wren. The grumpy one is Sparrow, and the fat one is Robin.” He swallows and tries to remember his courtesies, but to his embarrassment, he’s all but forgotten them. Finally, as if by some miracle, he remembers and sticks out his hand for them to shake.

They do, and when Wren introduces the pair to his brothers, the five decide to travel together.

Around Lord and Milady, Wren learns what it is to feel happiness. It’s slow at first, but then Wren finds himself laughing at something one of them says. It’s a nice feeling, and it’s one he wouldn’t give up if he were told he could finally stop moving around and live with a tribe and Lord and Milady forever.

Sometimes, he finds himself staring at Lord for way too long when he realizes he shouldn’t be doing that because that’s not what he’s been told people do. Incidentally, he is staring (or more accurately, leering) at Lord when he receives the news that changes his life forever.

“We’re leaving,” Lord tells him. Wren just blinks at him. It takes another moment before he finally figures out what Lord said. When he does, his eyes widen, and it feels like his chest is constricting.

 _He can’t leave. He can’t. He can’t._ They _can’t. I’ll be alone. I’ll be with my brothers again! I can’t deal without them, not anymore!_

Wren only realizes how panicked he is becoming when Lord snaps his fingers in front of Wren’s face. “Wren!” Lord exclaims, biting his lips and looking genuinely worried about his friend.

Wren opens his mouth to speak, but his panic has left him too out of breath to speak.

“Wren,” Lord repeats, and Wren actually makes an effort to listen to what he says and not simply watch the way his lips move, “I want you to come with us.”

Wren is sure his heart is going to burst. He can’t believe what he’s hearing, even though there is a broad grin forming on his lips and Lord’s hand is on his shoulder. “Yes,” he whispers. His brain is catching up to the rest of him now. He’s no longer so disbelieving. Lord is getting him away from his brothers, and that simple fact, he realizes, makes him even happier than he has been in his entire life.

Wren pulls Lord into a hug, and he is forced to assure himself that the rapid beat of his heart is because of his excitement and not because of his proximity to Lord. Indeed, so wrapped in his relief and willing blindness is he that he doesn’t truly recognize the way Lord’s breath hitches or how his hands dip a little lower than what’s acceptable or how Lord is careful to keep their pelvises a little apart.

Lord is the one that breaks their hug, and when he pulls back, Wren sees a slight blush on his cheeks and decides that he rather likes it before he can stop himself.

♕ ❀ ♕

A few days later, the very day upon which they are meant to be leaving, Wren finally tells his brothers that he is leaving with Lord and Milady. He holds his breath as he glances from Sparrow to Robin and back again. He’s nervous. He doesn’t think that his brothers would approve one bit, and even though he is going away, the childhood memories of being beaten when they disapproved of his action still plague his mind.

Today though, today he soon realizes that his fears are void. Robin’s notorious temper doesn’t flare up. He doesn’t punch Wren like he might have done in the past. He doesn’t react even. Sparrow only grinds his teeth. Somehow, that only serves to make it worse.

When Wren walks away from Robin and Sparrow for the last time, a tear trails down his cheek. He doesn’t speak as he walks with Milady and Lord away from his personal bogeymen. Milady looks at him in concern as they walk, but it is Lord that puts his arms around Wren’s shoulder to comfort his friend.

The trio walks for hours, the sun shining hotly on their heads despite the trees. They make camp that night in a small clearing where small clumps of grass grow amongst the weeds. It is the most glorious thing that Wren has ever seen.

Sprawled out under the open sky and kept warm by the fire at the center of their camp, they talk. Lord and Milady seem to function almost as one entity and keep finishing each other’s sentences. It makes Wren jealous, but he ignores the feeling because he likes his new friends too much to ruin their friendship with that.

He laughs more than he ever has in his life before, and it feels so good. A smile is on his face more often than not, and he makes them smile and laugh too. Wren tries to flirt with Milady, but with her the words stick to the insides of his throat. He doesn’t notice how easily they come with Lord.

It continues like this for months. Wren does flirt with Milady, and he sees her blushing, but it isn’t Milady that Wren blushes so much around. It is Lord with whom it comes so easily. Wren pretends not to notice when touches between them last just a bit too long and the heated looks they share.

That works well for a time, but people can only deny the truth for so long. And when it stops, no one likes the consequences.

It’s late, and the sky above them is dark, and the stars shine down from the heavens in the shapes of the weirwood faces. Wren and Lord are close, closer than anyone have any rights to be. They know everything about each other.

Later, Wren won’t remember what they’re talking about or truly even doing when it happens. But it happens. They’re talking and flirting and Wren isn’t even thinking, but then Lord leans in and presses his lips to Wren’s.

It’s a sweet kiss, and at the beginning, Wren kisses back. He enjoys it, but then his brain catches up to his actions. He can’t be kissing Lord, he thinks. Lord is male. _I’m supposed to love Milady_. Wren pales, and what he does next is something that he’ll come to regret.

Wren panics. He pushes Lord away hard enough that the younger boy stumbles back into a nearby tree. “This can’t happen. We’re men! This is wrong!” There’s a gnawing sensation in his stomach, but as Wren has done with so much else, he ignores it.

But the fury on Lord’s face is enough to nearly make him eat his own words and doubts, but still it is not enough. “How fucking dare you! I can’t stay here like this! I just can’t see you struggling to try to be with my sister while I’m here, so I’m leaving because I’m clearly not going to stop loving you.” He casts one last, burning glare at Wren before turning to go.

Wren wants to call out to him, but the words stick in his throat.

In the days that follow, Wren is a wreck. He keeps expecting Lord to be there, and frankly, he’s miserable without him. He tells jokes and expects Lord to be there and laugh with him. He expects his friend to be right there with him, but each time he finds a sinking feeling in his heart. Wren is dismayed to find that it doesn’t get better with time; the stabbing pain becomes a dull ache, but it does not diminish.

Milady, too, is upset, and for almost a month, she won’t even talk to Wren because she is sure that it is somehow his fault. She does eventually forgive him though, mostly because they’re still travelling together, and being angry is just too much work. When they begin talking again, Wren redoubles his efforts to flirt with her, ignoring how wrong it feels.

If Milady notices how forced the flirting is, she doesn’t comment on it and flirts back with Wren with a charm that is more than a bit intimidating. Despite that, however, the duo does get on well, often laughing into the night and ignoring the hole Lord has left in their hearts.

It’s been about a year since Lord has left, and it has gotten no easier for Wren and Milady in the time since. They’re flirting constantly, but the flirting has given way to lingering, heated kisses that last well into the night. Wren is a little confused at how wrong it feels, at how limp his cock is through all of it.

But tonight, with the stars staring down from the heavens, it goes further than kisses and clandestine caresses. Wren’s and Milady’s clothes go flying, and Wren looks Milady’s bare form up and down. He flushes, but it’s not arousal that makes his cheeks go red; it’s embarrassment. His cock is just as limp as it has been around all except Lord.

“I’m sorry,” he mumbles again and again, and he can’t be sure if he’s apologizing to Milady or to Lord. Because he realizes it now, he realizes that it has never been Milady and women that he’s been interested in despite all of what his brothers have said. He loves Lord, and the realization is more painful than even he can fully fathom.

He stumbles back, and he doesn’t care about the tears that tumble down his cheeks. He loves Lord, and all he wants is to have a way to go back in time and fix everything. He knows he’s going to have to go on somehow, and yet he doesn’t want to. He’s surprised when Milady puts her hand on his shoulder and whispers, “I’ve known.”

When the sun rises the next morn, Wren and Milady have a deeper understanding, and there is a new respect between them that hasn’t been there before. Wren doesn’t try to force any flirting between them now, and Milady doesn’t try her obvious charm on him so much -- though she does sometimes just to torment him.

Years pass until it’s been four years since the disastrous night that caused Lord to leave them and three since Wren failed to sleep with Milady. It still has been tough, but time has provided strength to cope just a bit too.

It’s summer, a true summer, and it’s been long enough that years have passed it it has yet to hint that winter is coming. Wren and Milady are hunting, both wielding spears with a skill that only comes with the need for survival. They’ve seen boar tracks and the wood and have been tracking the best for the better part of a day. Wren is shoving the branch of a tree out of the way when he hears a scream that chills his blood.

Milady.

Wren sprints to the site of the scream only to find a dead boar and Milady being cradled by someone altogether too familiar. The figure is sobbing into the shoulder of Milady’s corpse heavily enough that he doesn’t hear Wren’s approach.

Wren’s vision tunnels, and his blood rushes in his ears. Though his body is already reacting with grief, his mind has not yet caught up with it. How can he so easily believe that his friend of six years is dead? He can’t comprehend it even as he takes a few steps forward and sinks to his knees next to Milady’s body.

Tears fall down his cheeks, and by the time they stop, he cannot say how long it’s been. When he stops, he finally truly notices the figure that has been clutching Milady’s body in his arms like a lifeline.

“Lord?”

The figure, Lord, turns to look at him, but when he does, Wren’s heart plummets. He’s glaring, and Wren’s heart clenches as he wonders if Lord will ever find it in himself to forgive him.

“Shut up, Wren,” Lord hisses as he strokes a hand through Milady’s tangled locks. He frowns.

After a long period of silence in which it feels as though a flutter of butterflies are tickling his back, Wren finally whispers, “We should bury her at the very least.” It takes a while for Lord to nod his assent, and the stars above them, they dig her a grave marked only with a cairn.

They say nothing as they dig, and they say nothing as they stand vigil that night. They don’t even say anything when the sun has risen and the magnificent colors of the sunrise have all but vanished. Lord gets up to leave early, not casting another glance at Wren.

Something squeezes at Wren’s chest, and though he sees it is clear that Lord wants nothing to do with him, Wren follows him anyway. Lord doesn’t cast him another glance, and Wren trudges behind his stony figure for days without Lord even acknowledging him.

It stings, and Wren wonders if Lord is ever going to talk to him. He wants to apologize so much, and there is a desperate ache in his heart that gets bigger in his heart with each passing day. He has never dared hope that one day he could see Lord again, but this, this, he thinks, is ten times worse than never seeing Lord again. This destroys any hope that he can possibly have.

And yet, on the sixth day, Lord finally turns to face him. “Stop following me,” Lord hisses, his face so filled with a mixture of anger, bitterness, and hate, yet beneath it, Wren thinks he can still see the love that Lord once bore him.

“Lord,” Wren whispers, his voice cracking. He feels a lump form and his throat, and all he knows is that he really doesn’t want to cry now. He does not want Lord to think him pathetic or weak, not when Lord is still so jaded. “Please, please, listen to me.”

“Why should I?” Lord growls. He still seems angry, but there’s a catch in his voice that tells Wren that his resolve is crumbling with every second he looks at Wren. That makes him hope more than ever, and the feeling is foreign.

“I want to apologize, and I realize now that I did and do love you.”

Whatever remains of Lord’s resolve visibly dissolves. “Fine,” he whispers, making a vague gesture that tells Wren to talk.

So Wren talks. He tells Lord about how his brother had always spoken of women when he was young, and how much that had bent his thinking. He tells Lord how forced everything had felt with Milady. He tells him how easy everything had been with him until that kiss. He sucks in a breath and tries not to let any tears slide down his cheeks -- it would be all too easy. Before he can, he continues on. “And kissing you, that felt so right despite everything my brothers had said, so I panicked. And I was miserable without you, especially once I realized that my brothers aren’t right and that I can, and do, love you.”

For a second, Wren worries that Lord might slap him, but then he looks into the other boy’s eyes and sees the tears shining there. And then Lord’s palm connects with his face, but Wren barely registers the sting before Lord is pulling his head down so that their lips may meet in a kiss. The kiss is chaste, but it is more than he could have ever hoped for.

It’s like air, and it makes his heart soar even though it lasts only a few seconds. It’s over all too soon, but it means everything.

“I’m not saying I forgive you,” Lord whispers, his golden eyes meeting Wren’s ocean blue ones, “but I am saying that I am still in love with you.” It isn’t a proposal, or even an invitation to travel together, but Wren takes it as one nevertheless.

So they travel. Their feet take them, hand in hand, past gorges and rivers and through forests and plains. The sights they see are incredible, but that is not what they focus on. They work on getting to know one another again. They talk of their time apart and their love and how much they miss each other.

They’re at the edge of a godswood when Lord leans in and pecks a kiss on Wren’s lips. They’ve not properly slept together -- although that has been a very near thing -- and even though this kiss is lingering and sweet, there is no true intent behind it no matter how much Wren wants there to be. When he pulls away, Lord looks up at Wren, his golden eyes nearly phosphorescent in the red light of the sunset. “Follow me,” he whispers, his voice low and quiet. So Wren follows him.

Wren follows him to a weirwood tree. He looks to Lord in something between surprise and confusion. He’s about to ask what they’re doing there when Lord whispers in his ear, “Pledge yourself to me, and I will be yours.”

Wren’s heart beats rapidly, and for a second, he wonders if he is going to faint. He doesn’t and mere moments later, he’s whispering, “I am his, and he is mine.” with Lord. He is surprised when Lord keeps speaking.

“-- from now and unto the end of time. As many times as it takes, we will live together, be happy, and have a happy ending together. I say this in the eyes of the gods, and may it be true in all good faith.”  

With those words, Lord leans in and presses his lips to Wren’s in a searing kiss. Wren does not hesitate to kiss him back, slipping his tongue into his partner’s mouth. His hands knot themselves in Lord’s curly hair, pulling him closely. It’s bliss and passion, and Wren can’t imagine anything better. Or at least he can’t until Lord divests him of his clothes.

They’re clumsy as they consummate their passion. It’s the first time for both of them, and it feels better than anything they could have imagined. Wren loves the moans and curses that spew from Lord’s mouth when Wren thrusts into him.

It’s love, plain and simple, and this is what happiness feels like.

They are happy, for a time. They walk the world together and make love under the sky, hand in hand. They fight, and once Lord storms away for nearly a week, but they always are together. Though it isn’t the sun and moon and stars and the forest and fields are pretty on their own, if a bit ordinary, they are made spectacular by being there to see them together. Each night, they shag beneath the stars or in caves.

They’re staying in a cave, having built a small hearth within and hunting in the forests outside when everything changes for ill. They’re outside, hunting, and making jokes and just going about an average day. The sun is bright in the sky, and orb of light casting an undeserved glow on the horrors of the day.

A white hart they’re tracking, a beast of some repute and size, that they have decided would keep them fed for a week at least. There’s a rustle in the woods, and Lord pulls Wren into a kiss, jesting that they should let whomever it is watch them fuck. It’s a nice prospect, he thinks, if impractical. Wren is still blushing when he hears Lord make a gasp -- not one of the ones from pleasure to which he had become accustomed.

Wren’s eyes widen as he sees the expression of pain on Lord’s face. “Lord?” he whispers, but he receives no response, just a gurgle. Wren frowns, confused, as if he isn’t sure what exactly is happening when he looks down.

There is a knife in Lord’s gut. Wren cries out, desperate to see the light still in Lord’s eyes. “Please don’t leave me,” he whispers, his voice sounding foreign even to his own ears. “You can’t leave me. I love you.”

Lord looks like he’s going to speak, but instead of words, blood streams from his lips. He collapses forward into Wren’s arms. It’s only then that the tears begin to fall. “Lord,” his voice catches on the name, for part of him knows that it’s the last time he’ll say it to the other man.

Lord barely manages to gurgle “Wren” before the light leaves his eyes and he slumps the rest of the way in Wren’s arms.  It’s only then that Wren starts sobbing, that the air is ripped from his lungs and the ground from beneath his feet. All he can think is _no, no, no, no, no, no_. Lord can’t be gone. Wren doesn’t think he can go on without him again, not now, not now that they’ve been so together as if they are one person.

It’s only long after all the light and color has been drained from the sky that Wren finally looks up at his love’s killer.

The murderer looks different than Wren remembers, but the face is unmistakable.

Sparrow.

Letting Lord’s body slide to the forest floor, Wren rises to his feet.

He feels almost detached from the situation, like it’s happening to some other man. Once, he thinks, he would be terrified of Sparrow. Today, there is only hatred and anger and bitterness and a myriad of other emotions he can’t begin to name.

“Brother,” Sparrow says, his teeth gritted against some unknown irritant. “Why are you with this boy?”

It’s all Wren can do not to kill Sparrow then and there. In fact, if he were honest with himself, the only reason he didn’t was because Robin stumbles towards them at that moment. “Wren!” Robin exclaims, drawing his younger brother into a hug as if there isn’t anything wrong.

Lord’s death and the finality of it is overwhelming, and though it’s been hours, Wren still can’t grasp it, can’t think about anything else. He barely comprehends what’s happening around him. For once he doesn’t understand how he’s supposed to keep on walking, how the sun travels its path across the sky, how anything happens. He’s not sure how he finds himself trailing after Robin and Sparrow as if he’s just sixteen again and utterly alone in a world full of bogeymen.

He follows them for days, and it becomes increasingly obvious that the two of them cannot stand each other any longer, and Wren is left in the middle, trying to diffuse the tension while hating every minute and honestly wanting to kill both of them. It takes a week before he finds himself on his own with Sparrow.

They’re on the edge of a lake. The sky overhead has exploded into the blood red scarlets of sunset, but Wren can only think, deep in his misery, that it is the exact same red as Lord’s life-blood. “Why did you do it?” he whispers, hardly daring a look at Sparrow.

“I thought he was a deer,” Sparrow says, his voice as ice.

Wren glares at Sparrow for a moment, but then, as if guided by Lord’s vindictive spirit, he lunges towards Sparrow and snatches Sparrow’s knife. Wren barely knows what’s happening as he backs away and aims it at his brother.

“How could you? I loved him, Sparrow. He was mine and I was his. How do you live? How do you live like this with only half your soul? I have less than nothing now. The world owes me. But you? You have always been nothing. You are steel; you are hate. You’ve never had anything, but now you’ve destroyed the one person I’ve cared about. I love Lord, Sparrow. I love him. And now I don’t think I can go on without him, and certainly not with you!” Wren’s voice is trembling, and his hand trembles as he aims that dagger at Sparrow.

Sparrow almost looks pained at this. Almost. “It was unnatural.”

And suddenly it is all too much for him. “No,” he whispers, “it is love, and it’s more than you’ve ever gotten.”

It feels strange as he presses the edge of the blade into the skin of his wrists. It doesn’t feel like it’s happening to him. It doesn’t hurt, and for a moment, he can’t help but watch the blood trickled down his wrists. He knows there should be pain, but all he feels is hope, hope that he will someday see Lord again.

He shuts his eyes as he turns to the lake. He doesn’t see the horror and shock on his brother’s face as he steps into the lake. He wades into the lake until he’s too deep in it to walk any further. And then, he just stops. And then he just stops and leans forwards until his face is in the water. He doesn’t struggle when water is dragged into his lungs.

Barely a moment passes before it all ends, his lifeblood flowing through the lake, and to him, that is bliss for he is no longer in the world without his Lord.


	2. Chapter 2

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Wren/Renly = Revyno, Lord/Loras = Lancion, Sansa = Selsa, Hukko/Hugor of the Hill (a canon character) = Hugor of the Hill

  
  
  


It’s a few hundred years before two lost souls are returned, and it’s thousands of miles away. In Andalos, Wren is reborn as Revyno Brackwell. Revyno’s life is easier than Wren’s. There’s less uncertainty. He knows that the servants will bring him his food each and every day without fail. He doesn’t have brothers either. He has his parents, Syrenno and Voresa, and a younger sister called Selsa.

He’s happy, and he’s loved by his family. This life, he lives in a mansion on the tallest hill, made with stark white limestone walls, intricately carved by the most skilled smiths, and marble floors that could make even Revyno’s cousin Hukko (who insists on being called Hugor for reasons unknown to his cousin) jealous.

It would seem that Revyno has everything and anything a person can want in this day and age. As in most cases, this is very much not the truth. Revyno feels so very alone. He’s long since become accustomed to the idea that he is very much attracted to people who are very much not-female. It’s not that he’s afraid of the fact; instead, it’s that he doesn’t feel like he’d possibly be accepted. He knows Hukko despises the idea of people like him. He doesn’t know what his parents would think. Selsa has point-blank told him that he’s an idiot, that it’s just a phase, that he’ll grow out of it.

Revyno is very alone as he lays himself to sleep in his stiff bed that is made more for looks than practicality. He tries not to look around the rest of his chamber for it is the same. The air is hot and sticky, and Revyno almost considers taking off his smallclothes and sleeping bare. He doesn’t, a fact which he later finds himself very grateful for.

The night sky is clouded, so Revyno does not bother himself with having a servant tug shut his curtains before he slumbers. He falls into an uneasy sleep, a sheen of sweat making his skin sticky. When he awakes, it’s to screaming. At first he thinks it’s his own, part of some nightmare he’s just waking up to in a puddle of his own sweat. 

It takes another moment for him to realize that it’s not. His aqua eyes widen, and he pushes himself to his feet. Without so much as a conscious thought, he’s running from his chambers towards where the scream came from. It takes a moment for his brain to catch up to his body, for him to realize where he is. 

He’s frozen in the doorway of his parents’ bedroom, transfixed by the sight of blood streaming from his parents’ necks and chests. He furrows his brow, at first not quite comprehending what is going on. Why should he? How can he just believe that his parents are dead? Scratch that, how can they be gone? 

A strangled gasp flies from his lips, and by instinct alone does he scan the room and notice the problem. There’s a shadow lingering in one of the corners, and Revyno can not see anything to which it might belong. He takes a step forward and then another, trying to ignore the dead bodies in the corner. He feels the bile rising in his throat at just the thought, at the smell, at the sight. Maybe it’s just the shock of it all.

Still, he somehow manages to make it to that corner where the shadow lies. He reaches into the shadows, his arm trembling, but he still catches the intruder’s arm with a grip of steel and tugs him into the light.

The boy is tall, with chestnut colored hair and a small beard to match. Blood is splattered across the greens and golds of his robes, making patterns that Revyno knows will stay for good. It gives him some sort of sick satisfaction to know that his parents have marked their murderer so. He realizes that he needs to figure out what he’s going to with the man, for he is unlikely to stay put for any longer. 

Revyno disarms him quickly while he still holds the advantage. He knows that it’s strange of him, but he does not want to kill this man -- this murderer can hardly be older than he himself, and the thought of extinguishing a life so soon sickens him. “What is your name?” he asks instead of making some violent action.

The man blinks at him in shock, his amber colored eyes wide in confusion. After a moment, he manages, “Garrel Terreck, m’lord.”

“Garrel,” Revyno says, trying the name on his tongue as he tries to discern what course of action is the wisest for him to take. “What can you do to repay me for this heinous act?” He steps closer, trying to look threatening -- an expression better worn by his Syrenno and Selsa.

Garrel hesitates for a moment before whispering, “My brother, Lancion, and I, we could be your servants -- slaves even.”

Revyno hesitates to accept the offer. Then, almost a little cruelly (he is really starting to get worried; the tone of his voice scares even him, as if it resembles some bogeyman from a life long passed), he says, “No. Just your brother. You, you I want to find power for my sister.”

Indeed, Garrel pales, just as Revyno expected. “M’Lord,” he murmurs, “if that is your will.” He then lets Garrel slip away to go get his brother. He doesn’t follow him personally, instead sending his healer and a his most trusted knight. He trusts them to succeed. With a sigh, he turns to go inform his sister of the news.

She takes it worse than even Revyno fears. She throws things until they break against the wall, and even more than once she throws things at him. She screams until her throat is raw. Revyno tells her that he is having the man’s brother be his servant but not of his other request. Selsa just remarks that he should be man enough to have just chopped the man’s head off. Revynno just shivers at the suggestion.

But despite Selsa’s protests, the very next day, Garrel returns with his brother, Lancion. As Revyno expects, Lancion is glowering at his brother, at him, at everything, and very obviously dragging his feet.

And yet, and yet, Revyno thinks him even more gorgeous than his brother. His hair is the color of ash, and his eyes leave Revyno breathless. They’re honey colored, and lighter than Garrel’s, and within them are flecks of gold. 

Garrel looks from Revyno to Lancion, and if Revyno were paying him any attention, he might say that the man looks guilty. As it happens, his only thoughts are of how perfect Lancion looks. Lancion almost smirks, but then, as if remembering why he’s here in the first place, scowls. “M’lord, this is my brother, Lancion.”

Revyno nods as Garrel pushes his brother towards his new master. Lancion shrugs off his brother’s arm and gives him the moutza. Garrel just rolled his eyes, and so it was that with dragging feet Lancion walks over to Revyno and leaves his own family behind. 

Only a moment after Garrel leaves, Lancion shoots Revyno the most acidic look the dark-haired man has ever seen, and hisses, “Fuck you.”

Revyno sighs. He can’t help the wiggling of guilt in the pit of his stomach, not with how angry and lost his actions have made Lancion. And though Garrel has killed his parents, it is still hard to see the look of agony that had been on his features also. Perhaps he’s just too soft, he thinks, for when he risks a glance at his sister, all he sees is a vindictive smile. It sends a chill down his spine.

The next few days pass as one might expect. Lancion stays in the chambers that Revyno has shown him, and whenever some servant tries to fetch him, they come away with bruises. Revyno wants to bang his head against the wall. He’s made everyone around him miserable with this arrangement, it seems, including himself. The only one that’s benefitted is his sister.

On the eighth day, Revyno stops sending the servants and decides to go and talk to Lancion himself. He expects the bruises he will bear to be worse than any that his servants donn, but when he enters the room, he finds Lancion curled up in a corner.

“Lancion?” he asks, hesitantly walking towards the boy. The boy seems to retreat further in on himself and flinches when Revyno rests his hand on his shoulder.

“What do you want?” he demands, finally looking up at Revyno. He’s biting his bottom lip defiantly, but Revyno can see how red his eyes are.

“To talk,” Revyno whispers. So Revyno tells him about his family and how Garrell had killed his parents and just how alone he feels and how scared he is by how utterly vindictive his sister has grown to be. At first, he thinks that Lancion won’t say anything to him, but then, then Lancion speaks, and when he does, it nearly breaks his heart.

“I can’t believe my brother would just kill like that,” he whispers, rocking himself back and forth as tears dribble down his cheeks. Revyno looks at him, and slowly, golden eyes turn upwards to meet his own. There is understanding in that look, and it is without a conscious thought that Revyno leans down and presses a kiss to Lancion’s hair.

He leaves soon after. The next day, Lancion does do some tasks, but in truth, most of the servants wish he wouldn’t. He argues with people who so much as look at him wrongly or critique his actions, and with Selsa, he is downright rude. But to Revyno, he is less so. Sure, he blatantly ignores a good quarter of what Revyno tells him, but while he sulks at critiques and comments, Lancion does listen.

The months pass much the same, and Lancion’s attitude can be enough to make Revyno want to pull out his hair. He figures out how to be a lord, how to stand on his own two feet. He ignores the fact that he’s probably only managed that because of how Lancion seems to drive everyone to him for help. Revyno finds himself a little alarmed at how often he finds himself scolding this new addition to his household. Perhaps his alarm is more because of how the way Lancion looks at him while being scolded makes his heart flutter.

It’s only when he receives a message from Hukko, his cousin, that he finds himself worried. Lancion cannot come with him, he knows, for Lancion still offends everyone that isn’t him. He sighs, dreading relaying the news to Lancion.

“I have to visit my cousin,” he whispers one night as Lancion polishes his armor while sitting on the foot of Revyno’s bed. The moon is full, and it casts an eerie glow about the chambers. The candles spread across the room do surprisingly little to warm the glow. “He says he’s had some dream about a bunch of gods or something.”

To his surprise (though why it is a surprise is a mystery since he knows Lancion loves adventure), Lancion grins. “When do we leave to see him?” There’s a new fervor to his polishing, and the excitement in his eyes is so endearing that Revyno almost can’t break the news to him.

He does anyway because he doesn’t want his cousin to murder him or do anything else incredibly rash. Lancion leaps to his feet, sending the armor clattering across the floor. He curls his fists into balls and paces angrily about the room.

Revyno swallows and watches nervously, and it takes nearly a full hour before Lancion’s rage is well enough contained that he may speak. When he does speak, it’s in a small voice, quivering with rage and some other emotion that Revyno can’t quite put a name to. “Am I not good enough?”

Revyno shakes his head and tells him that it’s not that, never that, but the look on the boy’s face makes it clear enough that Lancion doesn’t believe a word of that. A determined frown crosses his face, and lifting an eyebrow, he informs Revyno that he’s coming with him.

Its a few days before the two Brackwells and their servant depart for Hukko’s hill, and the journey is passed in a tense silence. Hukko greets them in all his glory when they arrive, his long, black hair fine and splendid and his golden robes more garish than ever. He looks at Lancion skeptically before turning to Revyno and Selsa and winking. 

“Welcome, my cousins!” he exclaims, pulling them into a hug. Revyno hesitant in returning it. Hukko leads them inside and speaks to them of these new gods he’s dreamed up. There are seven of them, and he describes each aspect of these new gods in painstaking detail. It’s been a couple hours by the time he finishes by saying, “And they want us to go westward, and they want me crowned king.”

“King,” Revyno whispers to himself, and he shares a look with Lancion. If there’s one thing Revyno knows for certain, it’s that he doesn’t want Hukko as king. He doesn’t want to follow this man unto gods-know what end. Hukko has made it exceedingly clear that people like him won’t be tolerated. The very thought makes him shudder.

Where Revyno is quiet in his distaste, Lancion is loud and overt with it in that way he is with just about everything. He can feel Hukko’s anger growing and growing every time Lancion opens his mouth. 

By the end of the night, Hukko takes Revyno over to the side and yells at him for Lancion’s behavior. It’s all Revyno can do not to curl up and hide in a corner. Revyno finds Lancion the second Hukko finishes chewing him out. 

When he tells Lancion, he at first seems smug, proud that he has so pissed Hukko off -- what he has against the man is really anyone’s guess. But then Lancion looks up at Revyno, and his pride visibly crumbles. To Revyno surprise, Lancion apologizes (while glaring at the floor hard enough to make it spontaneously combust). 

The next few weeks are less tumultuous. Lancion doesn’t make Hukko’s life a misery, so Hukko more or leaves Revyno alone. In fact, Selsa leaves them alone -- she’s rather enamored with Hukko, and Hukko’s even talking of marrying her. Lancion, however, stays with him every second of every day. 

It’s not as it has been the last while, however. He doesn’t do chores while spending time with Revyno; he just spends the time with Revyno. But it’s not just that; his flirting is an effrontery, without shame. Revyno shivers every time Lancion leans in close. His heart beats rapidly. He can’t remember how to breathe.

It’s only after a month that he finally does remember how to use his voice, and that’s because it feels his heart is being ripped into a million pieces. He isn’t going anywhere in particular. In fact, he’s wandering around his cousin’s garish mansion when he stumbles into an alcove only to find it already occupied. 

“What?” he whispers, his voice the breaking of a bone. He’s somewhere beyond pain and shock. Lancion looks up at him, and there is unwonted shame in his eyes. “Why?”

Lancion shifts his gaze from Revyno’s feet to his face, but the older man has averted his eyes. “Because I want you,” he whispers, and it is only then that Revyno can bear to look at him. “But you don’t act on my flirting, so I want to get over you.”

He barely finishes his sentence before Revyno’s lips are pressed to his, his hands knotted in his hair. Lancion squeaks in surprise, but after having stilled a moment, kisses enthusiastically in return. 

The boy that Lancion had been kissing wisely stalks off. Lancion and Revyno fail to notice however, too preoccupied to notice anything else. Revyno grins stupidly when he pulls back. “Gods, I’ve wanted to do that forever, but you were meant to be my servant --”

He’s cut off by Lancion attacking his mouth with a renewed vigor. When they part again, Lancion whispers, “Just shut up, you idiot!”

They don’t consummate their passion that night, but only days pass until they do, their moans and shouts muffled by the shrubberies of the garden. The next few months are spent in relative happiness, the pair of them hiding in alcoves and cubby-holes and each other’s rooms to snog and shag.

It generally is spoiled by Selsa, who drags her betrothed along behind her, during one of their long kissing sessions. Hukko gasps in horror before his face contorts in a sneer. “What the fu -- how fucking dare you?!” he shouts, and Revyno would be surprised if the entire manor hasn’t heard it. “My own cousin a cock-sucking faggot?!”

Both Lancion and Revyno flinch, but wisely, Lancion says nothing. Revyno, however, speaks, and he manages to talk his cousin down (but how he does it is truly anyone’s fair guess). Hukko tells them that they are to attend a service of his new religion (Revyno is a bit surprised by how influential it has become so quickly) and that it would hopefully teach them out of “wrongs.” 

It’s a ridiculous, they think, but they don’t fool themselves into thinking they have a choice in the matter. Lancion is the one who realizes the full truth before Revyno, surprising both of them. They’re being watched -- Lancion sees the watchmen’s forms up and down the halls, tailing them like shadows.

It makes Revyno uneasy. Even in his parents’ home, he’d had his freedom, his ability to do what they wish. It doesn’t take long to decide that he just outright despises it. He can’t meet with Lancion more than once a week for fear that they’ll be caught in the act again and executed.

Weeks after being caught, they attend a mass, headed by Hukko, now officially known as Hugor of the Hill, himself. They attend together, standing in the haphazard sept side-by-side. Revyno can feel the heat of his cousin’s glare burning into his flesh. 

The mass goes better than Revyno has expected, but that does not change exactly how horrid it is. Half of it is going on about the seven gods that no one has even heard of until just then, and the other is talking about how things are meant to be, how men and made for women and vice versa. Hukko looks right at them when he says that, and both Lancion and Revyno glower back at him. 

It’s the end of the service that proves truly surprising, however: Hukko announces that he will now marry Selsa in front of the entire church. There’s an audible gasp, but it happens anyway. Revyno could not be less thrilled. He doesn’t want further ties to Hukko, and he doesn’t want his idealistic, vicious sister to marry and bed him either.

The ceremony is very strange, Revyno finds, with Hukko giving Selsa his cloak and announcing that she is his and he is hers. There’s a bedding ceremony after, too, but Revyno and Lancion don’t stick around for that. Instead, Revyno finds himself being dragged down a long to an alcove that’s hidden by an ornate tapestry. 

“Lancion,” Revyno whispers, only to be cut off with a kiss. He pushes away though. “I don’t think Hukko’s joking when he threatens us.” He takes a shaky breath. The last remnants of the sunset creep in beneath the tapestry. He tries to make out the details of Lancion’s face, for he thinks it will be the last time he ever sees it. He tries not to shudder. “I release you from my service. Go back to your brother, Lancion. I love you.”

Lancion slaps him. “What the fuck, Revyno?!” His anger nearly breaks Revyno because he knows that it’s he that is hurting his lover so. “You want me to go home, to be safe! Well, fuck you, I love you! I want to be here with you! But I guess you don’t love me!”

It breaks Revyno’s heart, and everything seems to hurt. Everything reminds him of Lancion, and the ache is physical. Revyno regrets sending Lancion away no matter how much it truly will protect them both. The guards following him around have dissipated like smoke, like they had never been there. Revyno hates even that.

Revyno doesn’t bother to attend when Hukko finally crowns himself as King Hugor of the Hill. Hukko’s asked him to play the Father, to crown him, but he refuses. He doesn’t want part of the ceremony of the man and religion that has forced his separation from Lancion. He doesn’t want any of it. If he spends the hours of the ceremony crying in a corner of his chamber, he’ll never admit it.

The next few weeks are even lonelier. It’s not that Revyno doesn’t have the opportunity to feast and eat and spend excess amounts of time with others -- it’s that he locks himself in his room and does not come out even once until Hukko insists that they leave Andalos for some “promised land” in the west.

It’s with reluctance that Revyno obeys, that he packs up his whole life and his households, and starts on his way. the journey is rough, and Revyno hates it. He hates the rough wind against him, the rough grass, everything. It’s strange to him, a man used to the comforts of a mansion.

Trailing after a man he hates feels familiar to him though, and he can’t help but wonder why. Sometimes, he dreams of another land, where he trailed after two men, his brothers, until a young boy with blonde-brown hair and eyes of molten gold rescues him. He hates those dreams. He doesn’t understand them, and he doesn’t think he ever will, but there is a love in them, the type he believes can only exist between him and Lancion. It makes him so desperately sad that he feels his soul ripped in two because he is so convinced that Lancion has left him never to return.

Revyno doesn’t feel sure of what he’s supposed to be doing. How can he? He can’t be some young lord the way he was before he met Lancion. Lancion had given him purpose, but now that purpose had been lost without him. He is ungrounded, and alone, and he has no clue what to do with himself.

So he rides and keeps riding alongside his cousin and sister. He doesn’t speak anymore often than he must, and he reckons it the quietest he’s ever been his whole life, but yet without Lancion there to speak to, it feels natural. 

Most of all, he regrets sending his love away. He knows that somewhere, Lancion is just as broken up about this as he is, and he hates that that is what he has done to his love. At night, his dry sobs echo into the night but go ignored by everyone. Even Revyno pretends they don’t exist for it is his fault. How can he deserve to cry about it?

So he rides alongside his cousin and sister, his heart slowly crumbling into millions of pieces. His sister is pregnant, and all the people rejoice. It’s happy, and there are feasts, and Revyno nearly smiles. But he can’t manage it because though so much happiness surrounds, there is none in him. So he still goes through the motions until one day when he doesn’t. 

It’s dawn, and the men are preparing the ships. Revyno doesn’t like the ocean; it’s too salty, to unfamiliar. And he just has never liked boats. He thinks that it would be far too easy to drown from one. He thinks a ride on a ship could easily be the death of him, judging by how sick he felt that last time. But all thoughts of dread leave his system the second he sees those ash-colored curls. 

He sucks in a breath, but it still feels as if he’s suffocating and can’t get enough oxygen. “Lancion,” he whispers, his voice barely loud enough for even himself to hear. He doesn’t even notice that he’s running, sprinting even, towards the man he loves. “Lancion!” he shouts, his voice now loud enough to be heard by some of the people standing closest.

When Lancion turns to look at him, his face is half a sneer. “What? You want to see me now?!” he snorts, rolling his eyes. Revyno’s heart nearly breaks all over again. 

“I always want to see you,” Revyno rasps back, quieter again. “Always.”

Lancion gives him the same hand gesture he gave his brother when he was giving him to Revyno. “Yeah, well fuck that! You clearly didn’t!” For a second, his anger seems to crack to reveal his hurt, an agony, a damaged pride, but he quickly covers that up behind his anger again.

Revyno looks at the bystanders, willing for them not to comprehend what is going on. He doesn’t think his prayers will do much, though, for he has never believed in any pantheon, so instead he implores, “Can we do this in private please?”

“Fuck, no!” Lancon hisses, moving to try to get away from Revyno. This, too, somehow feels familiar in a way he can’t explain. Revyno has grabbed him by the wrist and pulled him to a more discreet nook between two ships. 

“Someone would have heard, and fuck knows that Hukko threatens me enough without more proof,” Revyno explains, hoping that Lancion will understand -- not that he expects him to. But to his surprise, Lancion nods slowly, though he is clearly not thrilled. So he explains the emptiness he feels, the agony, and most of all his guilt, and he says that he would rather die than be without his Lancion again.

Something in Lancion’s face softens though, and despite the fact Revyno thinks it unlikely that Lancion will fully forgive his stupidity any time soon, when Lancion mashes their lips together and palms Revyno through his trousers, his hand a warm heat through the fabric, Revyno can forget. 

It does take nearly a month before Lancion does fully forgive him, but Revyno is more than okay with that. Lancion is very possessive now, he discovers, more so than before. He wonders if it’s because Lancion honestly thought that he would never have him again a bit guiltily. He can only feel so much guilt when Lancion fucks him so hard he sees stars and leaves marks that last for over a week. 

And so it comes to pass that even though they’re on a ship destined for some unknown land with Hukko and Selsa that they are happy. Revyno returns to his old self and lets himself feast and dance and laugh, for at night and anytime no one else is around, he is with Lancion, talking, fucking, or just being with him.

Revyno knows that his cousin suspects their activities, but damn it all to Hukko’s Seven Hells, he can’t bring himself to care, not now that he finally has his Lancion back. And so it is that on the day that Selsa gives birth to a healthy boy named Syrenno after their father, that Hukko, seeking a reprieve from his duties, stumbles upon them in a passionate embrace in the cargo hold.

Hukko screams at them, shouts, and Revynno knows that the whole ship can hear. He shudders and clutches Lancion to him protectively as if he can save him from his cousin. He fails, as he knew he would, and only hours later, as the sun sets and casts a glow the color of blood across the Narrow Sea and the far-off land of Westeros, that Revyno and Lancion are bound together, backs pressed together, and cast into the salty waters that Revyno had so feared.

“I love you,” he whispers, his voice cracking and shaking. 

Lancion barely manages his reply before there weight and tied limbs drag them to the bottom of the ocean.

“I know.”

This time, death is no bliss, no release from a lonely life. This time, it is hateful. The salt water rips into their lungs no matter how they hold their breath, but Revyno is able to twist his hand just enough so that he may clutch as Lancion’s. He’s with Lancion, and he prays to any and all gods that they may stay together forever because they are part of each other, belong to one another. 

He dies with a shard of hope in his heart.


	3. Chapter 3

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Rinya=Renly, Lysan=Loras, Aerorno=Oberyn, Eyme=Ellaria

  
  
  


There’s less time between the second life and the third than there were betwixt the first and second, but as with the second life, Wren is reborn in Essos. This time, he’s born in Lys a poor boy named Rinya Baerrion. He can’t remember having any family. Sometimes, he stays with any soul kind enough to permit him stay, and other times he’s a beggar.

He does not stay a poor boy long. Rinya has a mind as keen as any dagger in a backstreet tavern, but he makes risky gambles -- often where he gets a pouch of gold if he wins and a poisoning if he loses. He never loses, and he is just eighteen by the time he has amassed a small fortune for himself. 

He spends much of it buying himself a nice estate, but he keeps just enough that he can continue his betting, and so his wealth grows, and whatever anonymity he had once is gone by the time he’s twenty. Only brave men from afar bet against him now, and every brave man comes away having lost their purses, but he has such a fortune now that it hardly matters. 

He’s different from the other Lyseni, he knows. He has the Lyseni eyes of such a blue that they make the sky look dull, but his hair is not the color of Lys. Instead, he has long locks of hair the color of night. He has a sharper wit by far, and he can charm people with the skill and ease of a pleasure slave. In short, this man, better dressed than any other, is something of an enigma. 

He takes no lovers from the nobles or commons as far as any person, common or noble, can tell. He throws lavish parties, and people from all over come to see. Anything to do with Rinya Baerrion is an automatic hit.

So why he would one day, at age twenty, decide to visit a high-end pleasure house is on a summer’s day, when the sun hangs above and threatens to scorch any who venture out or stay in alike, is a mystery to all who have heard tales of him in Lys. But the thing is, Rinya didn’t truly know anyone, didn’t know a constant companionship, and all he has are admirers from afar. Above all else, he goes out of loneliness.

He goes there under the cover of darkness, when his dusk-colored hair is scarcely distinguishable from the standard blondes. The brothel is lit by so many candles, however, and there he is easily recognized. 

“Lord Baerrion?” the brothel mistress asks, her mouth nearly dropping to the floor in shock. “Let me get you our fines --”

Rinya cuts her off. “Not a lord, and not a woman,” he says, careful to keep his voice quiet enough that only the mistress can hear him. Her eyebrows arch, but she nods and comes back a moment later carrying a golden key with dragonglass embellishments. 

“It’s for the third door in the right,” she tells him, pressing the key into his palm. He nods, glancing around the establishment before obeying her instructions. He swallows as he looks at the door. He shuts his eyes. He needs this, he tells himself, not entirely sure if he himself believes that. But he thinks that if there’s a chance that he can get some honest companionship or feel truly cared about if even for minutes only, it might be worth it.

So he opens the door while staring at the floor. It’s only after the door has clicked shut that he actually looks up. He’s pretty sure his mouth drops open when he does. The boy is the prettiest he’s ever seen, and pretty is the right word. His hair is a deeper color than a bland blonde, and it tumbles down to his shoulders in stunning curls. His lips are full and a perfect pink. But then there are his eyes. They’re the color of molten gold, the color of honey, the color of amber, and the most soulful eyes that Rinya has ever seen. He forgets how to breath, and he doesn’t even care so long as he’s looking at _this_. 

The boy must be able to see how stunned he is because there is a rather large smirk on his countenance. Rinya decides that even that is the epitome of perfection. Finally coming to his senses, Rinya asks, “W-what is your name?”

The boy’s smirk merely widens. “Lysan,” he says, his voice utterly smooth and seductive in tone, “Lysan Tynos.”

“Well, Lysan of Lys,” Rinya begins, only to snort at the pout that forms on the boy’s face, “tell me a little bit about yourself.” 

Lysan laughs, and Rinya flushes. “You’ve never done this before, have you, my lord?” He leans closer to Rinya. Turning even redder, Rinya shakes his head.

“I’m not a lord,” he tells Lysan, trying to save a little bit of face, “and neither would I want to be.” And that, he knows, is the truth. He has money, and he can play the game with a skill that only few can manage. There’s no doubt that he would always win, and some days he hates that. But no matter that, he would not want to deal with the restrictions the lord’s face. He likes how free he is now, how he can flummox the people and how there are no true expectations on him.

Lysan’s eyes widen in genuine surprise as he realizes for the first time whom his client must be, and Rinya tries not to grimace. While the admiration was more than a little flattering, it often got more than a little old. 

“Rinya Baerrion?” Lysan asks, pure awe in his voice. He doesn’t seem to be able to believe that the man before him is the legend. 

Rinya and Lysan talk for the rest of the time Rinya has paid for, and they don’t have sex even once in all that time. Somehow, that makes Rinya happier, that because he paid for something else and got a companion, the time is somehow more real. In truth, it’s the first time there’s been this warmth in his chest, the first time he’s felt cared about. He ignores any part of him that thinks that Lysan paid him attention for pecuniary reasons only.

Rinya goes back the next day, once more under the cover of darkness. He brings a larger coin pouch this day so that he may buy more time with Lysan. If possible, Lysan seems even more gorgeous, more perfect today. His heart beats in his throat as he sits down on the bed next to Lysan. They don’t fuck that night either, and Rinya can tell that Lysan is a little unnerved by that. But Rinya keeps coming to the brothel with a larger bag of gold each night so he may stay longer. Rinya is struck by the irony that a man who never had friends but created money for himself would lose all his money to have a single friend.

It’s the first time Rinya has ever had a friend, and one night, with Lysan’s head resting on his chest, he whispers just that. Lysan snorts at that, pushing himself up and straddling Rinya. Rinya can feel his heart and more southern parts react to it, but he barely pays that any mind as Lysan whispers, “As if. Everyone loves you. You’re a hero to all of Lys and beyond.”

Rinya just shakes his head, propping himself up on his elbows. “No, they love the idea of me -- a man who went from rags to riches. They don’t love Rinya, who’s as human as they are. They don’t care about me. No one cares,” he whispers, the bitter loneliness that has plagued him all his life creeping into his voice. His voice catches as he says no one.

Lysan just shakes his head at Rinya. “No, I care. I love you,” he corrects just before leaning down and kissing Rinya. Rinya can’t help but be a little surprised, but as he recovers from his shock, he leans back down against the bed so he can knot his fingers in Lysan’s perfect hair.

They keep kissing until it’s not just kissing anymore. Lysan undoes the laces on Rinya’s shirt and trousers with surprising care while Rinya just tries to take Lysan’s clothes off as speedily as possible without bothering with the laces. It is by some unspoken agreement that Lysan begins to prepare Rinya, dipping his fingers in the oil and slipping them inside one by one.

It’s the best night of Rinya’s life, learning that he’s not alone and that Lysan, whom he loves, loves him in return. Having Lysan inside of him multiple times certainly doesn’t hurt either. 

When his time is up, he passes the brothel’s mistress. He pauses, thinking. He then stops the mistress and asks, “How much for his freedom?”

She blinks at him, frowning, before naming a high price. Rinya frowns back. _Is it really such a strange question?_ he wonders. _Does no one think to help them?_ He doesn’t think he should be so surprised. He knows that no one truly noticed or cared about him before he made a name for himself, and yet remembering how cruel the world is after this night is hard. 

The next night Rinya does not go to the brothel. Instead, he goes back to his old gambling haunt with a cloth tied around his head to hide his hair. People gamble with him, and as he anticipated, he wins every single bet. By the end of the night, he has enough gold that it takes multiple pouches to carry it back to his manner. The next night he gambles as well, and the next, until he has more gold than most men would know what to do with. He tries not to think of all the men who could be fucking Lysan while he’s gone.

Rinya is not most men, and he has no desire to be either. It has been three weeks by the time he finally is able to return to the brothel. Wordlessly, Rinya presses all of the last three weeks’ winnings into the brothel mistress’s hands. If she was disconcerted by his asking the price, she is flabbergasted by the fact that this man would actually pay it. “His freedom,” Rinya tells her, taking the key from her hand. 

He walks up to Lysan’s door with more assurance than he ever has in the past.When he slips the key in and opens the door, he almost feels what could be a small puddle of acidic guilt eating at the lining of his stomach. 

“Where in the name of the devil of blue balls have you been?!” Lysan growls, biting his lower lips in a pout. He puts his hands on Rinya’s shoulders with enough force to make the older man take a step back. 

“Have you missed me?” Rinya whispers, but he doesn’t give Lysan a chance to reply. “Come with me, Lysan.” 

Lysan frowns. “I may practically be the male incarnation of the Lady of Lys, but I can hardly control when we orgasm. But seriously, where the fuck have you been?!”

“Lysan, that’s not what I mean.”

“Then what do you mean?” Lysan growls, his eyes projecting ire and curiosity.

“Come with me and leave this place, Lysan; you’re a free man now. Spend the night with me in my home,” Rinya whispers, his lips brushing Lysan’s ear. He barely stops speaking before Lysan’s lips are pressed against his and his hands have gone from his shoulders to his hair.

How they make it all the way back to Rinya’s estate is a miracle by all accounts.But somehow, they do succeed, and the second they make it inside, their lips crash back against one another, and that just leads to a night that gets better and better each time they fuck.

Every other night is like that too. Rinya hosts gatherings, and in Lys, there is no perceived wrong when it is Lysan who attends with him and not a wife. They’re happy, enough so that even some of the biggest leches in Lys are disgusted by the level of affection they hold for one another. 

It’s perhaps the best time of his life right there, when Rinya and Lysan can snog in public without anyone judging for preferences. If when they were still a rich man and a whore they had a companionship and budding love, then now they have burning passion, an unquenchable flame. It feels strange in its own way that they shouldn’t be hiding and that they can do as they want when they want. 

All Rinya knows is that he would not trade it for the world or for anything. He’s stopped all of his shady dealings, all of his gambling. So much of it involves deals with the devil or brushing with death, and the Lady of Lys only knows that Rinya has too much to live for now to risk himself so. Rinya feels as though he is on a cloud and that nothing in existence could possibly bring him back down.

It’s almost a year after Rinya freed Lysan that they whisper “I love you” to one another. It’s after a party, in which Rinya welcomes the foreign dignitary, Aerorno Maar, to Lys, when the skies are dark, with only the light of the stars lighting the earth with the slim aid of candles, that Lysan says it. 

“I wanted to be a Faceless Man, once,” Lysan whispers, something odd in his tone that Rinya finds himself unable to decipher even after everything. 

Rinya nods and turns in bed to face Lysan. “And do you still?” He can’t help the note of fear in his voice. He just doesn’t want Lysan to leave him. He can’t imagine how he ever survived on his own, how he survived without Lysan.

“You’re a shit listener,” Lysan laughs, and Rinya frowns. “I wanted to, but then I met you, and I realized that you were all I ever wanted.” He smiles at Rinya and leans over to press their foreheads together. “And being in love with Rinya Baerrion is more than a thousand times better than being a Faceless Man could possibly be.”

Lysan barely finishes speaking before Rinya is snogging him hard, clutching him to himself with all his strength. Lysan moans into his mouth, and Rinya smiles into their kiss before pulling back, winded. “I love you too.”

Everything following should be happier, and they should have their love, and that should be all there is to it. It isn’t, though, because this is one more life in which there can be no happy ending. Indeed, the end has already begun. 

Only one scant week later, when a red moon has risen over the land, Lysan returns to their room, clutching a bloodied dagger to his breast. Rinya is already in the room, and when he hears Lysan’s footsteps, he grins. But then he notices the dagger and blanches, taking a step backwards. He doesn’t like the blood. All he wants is to look away from it, to never see it again. But he can’t. He can just keep staring at it. 

“Rinya?” Lysan asks as if nothing's the matter, but Rinya can hear the panic, knows that that panic is caused by seeing the outright horror on his own face.

“You’re not hurt?” Rinya whispers, his voice cracking. He doesn’t know what else to say, but those words are clearly the wrong ones as Lysan’s face only falls further.

“No,” Lysan hisses, looking around as if for an escape. Rinya sucks in a breath and shuts his eyes. He can hear Lysan’s breathing -- slow and hesitant, as if he’s worried that everything will be gone in a moment. And if that’s not his blood on the dagger -- and even if it is -- there is every chance that he is right to fear.

“Then what happened, Lysan. Just tell me, and tell me fast.” Rinya motions for Lysan to sit on the bed next to him. He pinches the bridge of his nose. He doesn’t want to hear this, but he must. He must because everything they have depends on it. Lysan just looks at him, tears shining in his eyes. Rinya can’t help himself. He just pulls Lysan into a hug. He is surprised, however, when he feels Lysan sobbing against him. “Ly, what is it?”

Lysan looks up at him from where his head rests against his chest. His golden eyes are still teary and pained, and he clings to Rinya as if he thinks it’s the last time he’ll ever hold Rinya. Heart falling, Rinya thinks that Lysan could be right to worry, but the desperation is still hard. 

“Fuck me, please,” Lysan whispers into Rinya’s shoulder, and Rinya complies. Lysan clutches more desperately to Rinya than usual, and his cries are a mixture of ecstasy and despair. It breaks Rinya’s heart. Lying next to each other afterwards, Lysan finally whispers, “I just couldn’t.”

“Couldn’t what?” Rinya whispers, dreading Lysan’s answer with every fiber of his being.

“Watch him be happy, not after what he did to my brother,” Lysan mumbles, shutting his eyes. “Him being here . . . I just . . .I couldn’t. He killed my brother in cold blood because he beat him in a race. And tonight he just looked so, so happy, and I just could not bear it, Rinya.” Rinya strokes his hair softly, and Lysan looks up, eyes widening. 

Rinya has a horrible feeling that he knows whose blood it is on that dagger, but he still has to ask, “Who?”

“Maar,” Lysan hisses, and Rinya, who had suspected as much, still pales. He understands exactly why Lysan had been so worried. Had Rinya loved him any less, this would have been goodbye. This could have been goodbye because Rinya would make him face justice, been goodbye because Rinya would make him flee Lys, been goodbye because Rinya was utterly disgusted with his actions.

Rinya does none of that. Instead he picks up the dagger and wipes it on the bed linens. “We have to leave Lys. Perhaps Braavos?” 

Lysan stares at him, his confusion clear in his eyes. “What?” His mouth hangs open, and Rinya can’t help but press a kiss to it. 

“We have to get out of Lys,” Rinya insists, and it is only after that that realization seems to dawn on the younger man.

“You’re coming with me?” His voice cracks halfway through and never makes it past a breathy whisper.

“I will follow you always,” Rinya whispers, pressing the younger man’s boy to his own. And then Lysan’s lips are plastered to his own, his hands gripping him like a vise. Rinya kisses him back, the desperation in his kisses nearly equal. It is with the utmost reluctance that he finally pulls away. “Now, take just what you need. We’ll leave in an hour.”

It’s been an hour and a half by the time they leave, but they’re still over a league past the city’s edge before the bells toll. Lysan clutches more tightly to Rinya’s waist as they ride. They do go towards Braavos, though neither truly knows why they are going to Braavos. Rinya figures he can gamble there too, and perhaps he can get Lysan tutored by a Water Dancer. That, to him, seems like a win for both of them.

They arrive almost two months later -- perhaps it’s been longer, but neither man has any way of telling. They arrive just as day begins to break, the hues of sunrise decorating the horizon and casting long shadows that give the city a nearly breathtaking appearance. Rinya feels as if half the breath has been stolen from him.

Rinya buys them a small apartment above some other man’s shop, and so there they live. Every night, before returning to his and Lysan’s bed, he gambles and gets that much more money. It’s nearly Lysan’s name-day before he accumulates enough money to buy him a present. To a man accustomed to riches, it may seem like nothing, but to Lysan, and even to Rinya, it’s a grand gesture. Rinya employs a Water Dancer to teach Lysan swordplay.

Lysan snogs him when he finds out, flinging his arms around Rinya’s neck and holding him as close as two people may be. “Thank you! Thank you! Thank you!” When he pulls back, the grin on Lysan’s face makes the fact he spent nearly every one of their coins on it more than worth it. 

Lysan has been training for a few months when Rinya follows the Water Dancer after Lysan’s lessons. He wants to discuss Lysan’s progress and if he thinks that Lysan would be well-served by adding a second teacher with his own style into the mix. But Rinya does not have a chance to talk to the Water Dancer before the other man is meeting with someone else. 

Accustomed to his life being in at least some danger, Rinya is unable to help overhearing at least some of the conversation. “-- must kill the boy.”

“Miss Eyme, you must have patience. If I kill him before time is up, you may not be able to have revenge on your brother,” the Water Dancer hisses in reply to Eyme’s demand.

Eyme. 

Rinya swears the name is at least a little familiar, and when he realizes where he’s heard it, he blanches until he is paler than a ghost.

He _has_ heard the name Eyme before, but he’s heard it in the context of the name Eyme Maar. Eyme Maar, as in the wife of Aerorno Maar. Eyme Maar, as in the equally hot-headed wife of Aerorno Maar. Eyme Maar, as in the wife of Aerorno Maar who will now want revenge for her husband’s death.

Rinya does not refrain from cursing, but he has the presence of mind to do it quietly enough that neither Eyme nor the Water Dancer notice. He is silent for the rest of the pair’s meeting as he frantically searches for some way out of this. As it stands, he can’t let the Water Dancer near Lysan again. _Unless_ . . . A thought crosses his mind, and a slow grin spreads across his lips. 

He waits for the Water Dancer to leave his meeting with Eyme before approaching silently. He doesn’t manage to catch the Water Dancer by surprise, but that’s okay because he wasn’t trying to. “A game,” he tells the Water Dancer, imploring the Water Dancer to make a bet with him. “If you win, you have my head. If I win . . . .” He can’t help his smirk. “If I win, you don’t kill Lysan and you kill Eyme Maar.”

“Done,” the Water Dancer replies, and Rinya is infinitely glad that he never revealed his identity to the man, for no sane man bets against Rinya Baerrion.

And so they play the game. Rinya finds that the Water Dancer plays well, but he also recognizes that the man plays with honor, plays by the rules. Rinya thinks it’s fortunate he stopped playing by the rules before he even started. He wins without even a struggle.

“Come back with me,” Rinya requests, but their story ends before Rinya even begins walking back home. In all his years, Rinya’s threats have been from the game itself. Never before has it been from a third party. And never before has a dagged been thrust up from beneath his ribcage and into his heart.

But Eyme Maar, the wife of the man Lysan killed, manages the impossible. She gets that dagger into Rinya’s body, and she sees Rinya fall to the ground, blood squirting from the wound and dribbling from his mouth. Rinya is dead before he hits the ground, so he sees none of what happens next.

He does not see the Water Dancer trust his blade into Eyme’s neck. He doesn’t see how the Water Dancer drags both their bodies back to Lysan and hear how he explains the events. He never sees how Lysan’s tears fall, never feels how they trickle down his own cheeks when Lysan presses their foreheads together one last time. He doesn’t feel their last kiss either, a kiss so soft that it’s barely there.

But perhaps it’s fortunate he does not see what Lysan becomes after that, for everything that Rinya’s Lysan was begins to waste away without him.

Lysan finishes his training with the Water Dancer faster than he’d done any of his training before. The day he finishes, he vanishes like smoke. He takes a sword and a wineskin, and he takes a small token of Rinya’s and and leaves. He doesn’t know how he can keep going, yet at the end of each day, he is still alive.

Life, well, he does not want that. He doesn’t want to make it through each and every day without Rinya, without the other half of his soul. The only thing that keeps him from running himself through on his own blade is that he knows Rinya would not want him to do him. So every night, when the sobs overtake him, when he has spent his tears, and when all he feels is a bitter emptiness, Lysan repeats those words to himself. _Rinya would not want me to take my own life, Rinya would not want me to take my own life._

Sometimes, those words make the pain worth it. 

But still, it is good that Rinya does not see how Lysan has become because Lysan’s condition spirals further and further downhill. Rinya would not want to see how low his love becomes by the end of this life. 

Lysan fights in the fighting pits of Slaver’s Bay, and he sells his sword to anyone who will pay for his work. He does not try to win, not truly. Because if he can be struck down fighting, then he is dead, and he has not killed himself. 

But still he cannot manage it.

What Rinya became with gambling, Lysan has become at the sword. No one may defeat him, and that weighs against his soul. He can feel his hands hardening along with his barren heart. Each competition, he wins. Each task given, he completes. All he has to show for any of it is an ever-growing collection of scars.

And so, with no love and no hopes and no true dreams, he continues for years, his once bright eyes dulled with an unbearable agony. 

But as with his lover, as with his beloved and cherished Rinya, it is with Lysan: an unseen foe is the one that murders him. 

Ten years to the day from Rinya’s death, Lysan develops a cough. At first, it may be treatable, no more than it appears. He lets it go untreatable because he wagers that it will either go away or kill him, and he would rather the latter. He gets his wish, for one day, it is no longer just air that spews from his lungs with each cough, but blood, red, mucousy blood. And he coughs blood each day, becoming too weak to move, to weak to fight another day.

It’s midday when he finally passes. The blood he coughs up with his dying breaths evaporates only moments after landing on the hard sand of the path. Sweat rolls down Lysan’s face as he claws his way through the sand towards a rock. He’s barely able to sit upright, and before long, the rock, with its sharp edges cutting into his back, supports him fully.

When he shuts his eyes for the final time, the first true smile he’s worn since the death of Rinya adorns his face. Life flows out of Lysan, and there he is left, a grinning corpse with a sword, happier in death than he could be in a Rinya-less life.


	4. Chapter 4

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Arecel = Wren/Revyno/Rinya/Renly  
> Laoren = Lord/Lancion/Lysan/Loras  
> Seldan = Sparrow/Stannis  
> Mylass = Melisandre
> 
> I will fill a prompt for the first two people to correctly guess the identity of the head septon. 
> 
> Happy Independence Day to those of you from the United States of America!

  
  


Before the time Wren and his Lord walk the world once more, much changes. The Targaryens conquer Westeros with their dragons. Cities that once were are no more, their smoldering ruins a warning to any who would dare mess with this brave new dynasty. But this is still only a few generations past before the star-crossed lovers walk again. Baelor the Blessed has yet to be born, and the pinnacle of the Faith is the Starry Sept. 

But the biggest changes are not in the world. The greatest changes are in Wren and Lord themselves. In this life, Wren is born Arecel Blackmont, daughter to a Dornish House, sworn to the Martells. Arecel’s parents have been dead since she can remember, and she is the only child. She has other Blackmont cousins, of course, but they are second and third cousins. And they are not her closest family -- that is an honor that belongs to Seldan Blackwood, a lord from the Riverlands. 

When Arecel packs all of her belongings to head north, no bone in her body wishes to leave the sun. She’s only five when she goes, and she sobs before she leaves, stalling as much as she can manage as if that may delay the inexorable. The inexorable is inexorable, as one may expect, and Arecel Blackmont leaves her Dornish mountains forever with her first cousin.

He first cousin is a cold man, Arecel learns, more likely to hit her than to listen to her. Arecel shrinks back into her imagination, a place that soon becomes her refuge in a world that cares little for her. Seldan does not have a place in his court for her, a young female cousin, he tells her after he introduces her to everyone. 

Arecel is nearly sobbing at this new realization, wondering if she’s going to be going back to Dorne (a fate that excites her) or something much worse. Staring awkwardly at the child sobbing into his leg, Seldan informs her, in that clinical voice of his, that she will go to the motherhouse in Oldtown -- all the way in the Reach and so much closer to home. 

She frowns at this, wondering why she had to come all the way up to this cool, wet place when she could have just gone directly to the motherhouse. But all the petulant objections of five-year-old Arecel ignored, the girl is shipped off to the Oldtown Motherhouse where she grows into a lovely young lady. 

Arecel does not become what one would be pious, and she’s only just slipping into her early teenage years when she notices her attraction to women. She’s Dornish through and through, though, and her concern is not that such a relation would go against the Faith; instead, she is more worried that if she does start a relationship she’ll be kicked out of the motherhouse and be forced to go back north to the Riverlands.

So her lightly tanned skin is blanched when she is dragged before the headsepton of the motherhouse. After all, the worst that can happen is being sent home. And the most alarming part of it all is that that seems to be exactly what is happening. She’s not sure why the leading septon is so upset -- she didn’t do anything. But as the headsepton rants, it just becomes more and more clear that Arecel will no longer be welcomed here. She shuts her eyes and wills the tears not to fall. Part of her knows that she’s endured worse than this, but most of her doesn’t want to think of the future. She doesn’t want to think of how she is falsely accused for some other girl’s mischief.

 _It’s just not fair_ , she thinks as she packs up her belongings and mounts her horse. _But then, nothing is fair, is it?_

She’s still bitter when she arrives in the Riverlands with her small entourage of Faith-loyal travellers. She wants to shut her eyes to keep from seeing the Riverlands as her horse walks through them. It’s only when she reaches her cousin’s keep, Raventree Hall, that she lets the reality sink into her heart.

This will be her home for the rest of her life.

She sucks in a deep breath and takes a step forward into the keep.

It’s different than she remembers, but in some ways, it’s no different than she remembers. Seldan Blackwood is just as terrifying as she remembers. But if Arecel is wary of him, she is petrified of his fiance, Mylass Esserah, an Essosi religious fanatic. She’s unsurprised that her cousin has not converted and unsurprised that the rest of his men have followed his lead. He is an imposing man, after all.

Mylass wastes no time in trying to convert Arecel, however. As Arecel stays at the keep, attending feasts and pretending to enjoy life as a lady of the Riverlands, Mylass just scares her more and more. 

Five months after Arecel returns to the Riverlands, she decides that she is going to leave them. While she would have loved to leave before then, Mylass then gives her the final push. It’s one evening, after the sun has gone down and the torches have been lit, that it happens.

Arecel is walking down a corridor when Mylass corners her, snatching her wrist with a steely grip like Seldan’s, hard enough that Arecel knows there is no escape. She tries to claw at Mylass’s hand to get herself free, but it does nothing to help her. She lets out a panicked gasp as Mylass thrusts Arecel’s hand into the flames.

Arecel screams as Mylass tells her to look, tells her to see visions in visions in the fire, the powers of R’hllor. But when she looks inside, she does see, but she does not believe. She sees this man with her eyes and her hair being killed by a shadow, which she somehow knows comes from and Essosi woman. 

Even as she screams and the flesh on the palm of her hand bubbles, she somehow finds the strength to rip free of Mylass’s grasp. She wastes no time in fleeing. She packs none of her belongings and instead saddles a horse and just gallops until the next inn, where she switches horses and keeps riding. 

She doesn’t know how long it’s been by the time she’s standing outside the Oldtown Motherhouse. For the first time since she was first sent there, looking at it brings a smile to her face. She finds the headsepton quickly, as if she still has the route memorized from before she left. Maybe she does, she thinks, and for the first time, she thinks she’ll let this be her home.

Even so, she has to beg before the headsepton agrees to take her back at the Motherhouse, even though she delineates the terrors of the last few months -- a night to the day that her life has been thus far. She hopes with every fiber of her being that this is the sunrise.

When she’s allowed back, the headsepton doesn’t give her a room of her own like she had had before; instead, she’s stuck in a room with a younger girl (who is allegedly on her level) named Laoren Traever.

Arecel isn’t happy about her new room situation to say the least. She heard rumors about this Laoren before -- the girl is that bright and that much of a troublemaker that she is nearly a legend even amongst the older girls. But Arecel doesn’t want a roommate. She especially doesn’t want one that will show her up in every little thing (which is especially likely now with her hand, ruined from the flames and the reigns).

But when she enters her new room, she instantly taken aback.

_How have none of the rumors mentioned how bloody gorgeous this girl is?_

Arecel does her best not to blush in the face of the younger girl. And Laoren is bloody gorgeous. Long, dark lashes frame eyes of the purest gold, and hair of a nearly amber color tumbles down her back in stunning curls. _She has full lips too_ , Arecel also notices, trying desperately not to think about exactly how kissable said lips would be.

Now she really does blush before realizing that Laoren is staring at her too. “Hi,” Arecel manages, barely managing not to trip over her own tongue. 

“Hello,” Laoren replies, and Arecel tries not to be jealous of how unaffected Laoren is. Laoren then girns, and it is the most stunning thing that Arecel has ever seen.

“Arecel Blackmont,” Arecel says, trying to sound suave, like her brain hasn’t turned into a puddle of mushy nothingness at the sight of Laoren’s ethereal beauty.

And somehow, the pair become fast friends after that. They’re in basically all of the same classes Arecel quickly learns that Laoren does not have many friends, and after a little while, she sees why. Laoren is headstrong and can be a bit abrasive, never restraining her opinions. She’s not sympathetic either, but to Arecel’s relief, Laoren generally says little in regards to her hand. 

But what Laoren lacks in friends, she makes up for in spirit. Arecel doesn’t become wild, not like Laoren, but what she lacks in wildness, she can make up for in charm. And thus it becomes something of a game: Arecel charms people into talking to and flirting with Laoren, and Laoren sees how quickly she can frighten them off. Much to Arecel’s chagrin (or would-be chagrin if she didn’t find it so bloody sexy), Laoren always manages to frighten them off. She tries to ignore how satisfying it is that Laoren is scaring everyone except her off.

The sun is shining overhead, and the girls are lounging beneath a tree not far from the city walls with Laoren resting her head in Arecel’s lap. “I don’t want to be a septa,” Laoren tells Arecel, looking up at the older girl without moving her head. Arecel is once again struck by how stunning Laoren is and how much she just wants to kiss her. 

Arecel’s heart beats faster, and she knows a slight flush has come to her cheeks. “Then what do you want to be?” she asks, absently curling a hand in Laoren’s hair.

“A knight,” Laoren whispers in response, her voice strangely decisive. “Don’t you ever want to be something other than a septa, live some life, free in the world and free to love who you love?” She pushes herself upright, but she doesn’t move away from Arecel. She turns so that their fronts are pressed together, and her lips ghost over Arecel’s. 

Arecel licks wets her lips. _This can’t be happening_ , she thinks, her blue eyes gone wide. _There is no way. She can’t possibly love me in return._ But then, she wonders why else Laoren would be so, so terribly close to kissing her. “Do you love me?” Arecel asks, her voice sounding feeble to her own ears.

“More than anything,” Laoren says against Arecel’s lips, her slender hands worming their way into Arecel’s inky locks. Their lips move against one another, and it is not long before Laoren runs her tongue along Arecel’s lower lip.

They stay there, beneath that tree, for a while, just kissing and touching. The sky is alight with the rich tones of the sunset by the time they return, hand in hand, to the motherhouse. Days spent talking and playing turn into something a little more. If they were born but a few centuries later, one might say that they spend dates with one another. But allowed or no, their relationship makes Arecel feel more whole than she ever has, even before she was sent from Dorne. 

Classes get easier, and Arecel can tell that as their time to be assigned their orders approaches, the headsepton becomes less and less concerned with whether they’re actually learning. Two months before they’re meant to graduate, Arecel is dismayed to see that Laoren isn’t in their rooms. She sits down on her bed, concerned but unalarmed, and after a while, falls into a fitful slumber. 

She wakes with a start some time later when the door is slammed shut.There’s a growl, and with a start, she realizes that the bestial sound is coming from Laoren. She sits upright and asks, “What’s wrong? Where were you?”

“The highsepton was yelling at me,” she says, not meeting Arecel’s eyes. Even so, she can see the tear-tracks. Arecel narrows her eyes. “Apparently I talked back one too many times.”

Arecel catches Laoren’s lips in a kiss, stroking the younger girl’s hair with her ruined hand. “That’s something I love about you: your spirit.” She smiles as comfortingly as she can manage.

“Thanks,” Laoren answers, her voice shaky. She attempts a smile, but somehow, it’s only the shadow of a grimace.

“So tell me what happened. Please,” Arecel prods her lover. 

Laoren still can't meet her eyes properly. "He decided I needed a caning to keep me in line." How dare he! Arecel fumes silently, anger brewing though there is nothing she can do but help Laoren recover. 

"Let me see," Arecel whispers, running a palm down Laoren's cheek. Hesitantly, Laoren nods and obeys, and Arecel stares, transfixed at the crisscrossing red welted lines across her lover's arse. 

She rubs a healing balm on the wounds gently, taking care of Laoren in a way she never would take care of herself. She presses a kiss to a sore cheek before holding Laoren through the night. She holds Laoren the next night, too, and every night they spend together after. 

The next two months pass in alarming speed even though much has changed. Instead of spouting brash and witty quips from the room, Laoren acts the part of perfect septa, silent and demure. Arecel is the only one who sees Laoren's irritation and temper and the only one to see how Laoren bridles against the headsepton's glares.

Somehow, they make it the full two months without snapping. Arecel and Laoren sit side-by-side as they wait to hear their fates. Arecel is not shocked by her own assignment; after all, a blue septa, one devoted to the crone, is an assignment for the wisest and most faithful, and her hand was ruined while she refused to convert to another religion. Indeed, it is Laoren's assignment that shocks her so.

“Septa Laoren Traever for the grey septas of the Crone, the Silent Sisters,” the headsepton declares, and both Arecel and Laoren gasp twin gasps of shock (and on Laoren’s part, horror). Arecel recognizes this instantly for what it is -- a petty plot of revenge. She furrows her brow.

Laoren, she knows, is barely able to sit through the rest of the ceremony, but to Arecel’s relief, she does somehow manage it. Arecel feels a bit guilty when she abandons Laoren directly after, but she can’t feel too guilty when she is doing it for the woman she loves.

She follows the headsepton with more confidence in her step. She confronts him in her office, not letting him shut the door behind him. “Septon,” she greets, a false smile turning her lips into a venomous curve. She takes a step closer to him as her smile just becomes more and more threatening. “Move Laoren into another order, would you? My cousin is powerful, and I could easily see you fall.” She winks to him. “But I won’t have to, will I?” She thinks she sees the headsepton nod.

She turns and stalks back to her and Laoren’s chambers. Laoren frowns when she enters, and for a moment, Arecel wonders if she’s going to ask where she’s been. She thinks it likely, but then she suddenly finds herself very, very mistaken. Laoren attacks her with her lips, pressing them hard against Arecel’s. 

Laoren wastes no time in pulling off Arecel’s formal robes, and Arecel finds that she could not care less about whether the garments rip at all or not. Arecel takes a bit more care in divesting Laoren of her robes, but the end result is the same. Both women are bare before one another. Arecel reaches down and cups Laoren’s arse. Laoren moans into her mouth.

Arecel can’t help but smirk. “And you’re supposed to be the silent one,” she mumbles, kissing the column of her lover’s neck. Smirking, she draws Laoren’s earlobe into her mouth, eliciting another long moan. “But don’t worry, I’ve fixed that, luv.”

That’s the last talking either of them do for a good long while as Arecel falls to her knees before her knightly woman, and Laoren begins tugging frantically at her hair. Nearly a couple of hours later, they lie together on Laoren’s bed as they have become long-since accustomed to doing. Arecel runs a hand down Laoren’s leg as the other woman slowly manages to push herself up into a sitting position.

“Where were you earlier?” Laoren asks. “After the ceremony, you disappeared.” She raises an eyebrow, batting her long lashes at her lover.

“The headsepton will reconsider your assignment,” Arecel informs her with a smug grin, placing her whole hand behind her head.

Laoren’s eyes widen and she leans down to press a chaste kiss to Arecel’s lips. “Thank you, but I won’t be needing it.” She smiles at Arecel though and presses her hips against Arecel’s side. 

“Then what --?” Arecel begins, but then she looks around the room and realizes that all of Laoren’s belongings are packed. “Where are you going?”

Laoren grins at her. “I’m going to become a knight. I just need to go to King’s Landing to collect the armor I commissioned.” She smiles. “I’ll miss you. Cut my hair for me?”

“Yes,” Arecel whispers, feeling impossibly small. No part of her wants to do this even for Laoren, but she will anyway. She doesn’t want Laoren to be in danger or for Laoren to go away, but this is what Laoren wants, what Laoren needs. These are her lover’s dreams, so she will help Laoren achieve them no matter how much it hurts. Her own heart feels much like the long locks of hair discarded on the floor of room to be swept away later.

It’s not yet dawn when they sneak out. The stars shine overhead, and the moon hides her face from the world. Arecel wonders if it’s the Maiden crying in sorrow for their parting. Tears run down their faces as they speak their goodbyes and give each other one long, last lingering kiss. “I love you,” Laoren whispers when they part from their kiss, their foreheads still pressed together.

“I love you too,” Arecel whispers as she forces herself to unknot her hands from her lover’s curls. “Always and forever.” She takes a shaky breath, willing her hands to stop trembling and her every breath not to feel like a knife driven into her heart. “Come back to me, luv. Just promise me that.”

“That was never in doubt,” Laoren hisses, her teeth gritted. While to someone other than Arecel that may seem an angry gesture, Arecel knows differently. She knows it’s because Laoren doesn’t want to cry anymore, not when so many of her dreams are about to finally come true.

Arecel watches as Laoren gallops away and hopes that letting her pursue her dream is not the worst decision of her life. The feeling of watching her gallop away is strange, something entirely foreign in a way the rest of her life has never felt. She doesn’t like it one bit, and she thinks that it may very well be worth leaving everything behind to ride after her lover. 

The sun is just peaking over the horizon when Arecl sneaks back into her room. She flops back down on the bed, and though she knows it is selfish, she can’t help it; she breaks down sobbing. She herself has to pack; she’s been assigned to be septa in the sept of her cousin’s keep. She doesn’t want to go, but she has no choice, she knows. 

With all of her belongings, she travels back to Raventree Hall. She doesn’t bother with a wheelhouse when she rides. She has learned how to ride with just her good hand and the limited use of her bad one. She doesn’t greet her family when she arrives, and she suspects that though Mylass and Seldan are likely waiting to receive her, they must both be glad that she doesn’t bother. 

In the next few months, Arecel doesn’t interact much with her family. It suits her. He cousin does visit her a few times. Sometimes Arecel swears she might be able to see guilt in his eyes. Sometimes it’s hurt, she thinks, but this is the stony Seldan Blackwood. She doesn’t even know if he’s capable of such emotion. Arecel wonders how Laoren is doing in her tourneys often. Some of the septons and septas have asked her if she knows what happened to rebellious young Laoren Traever. It breaks something in her soul every time she has to deny how much they mean to one another, how often she has to pretend she does not know what Laoren is doing. 

Some days, she wonders how there is anything left in her to break without Laoren there. Every second spent apart is agony. Arecel hopes that Seldan will host a tourney soon. Arecel wants to see Laoren again so badly that it is a physical ache in her chest. She knows that if she sees Laoren again, she will not let her go. She doesn’t know what she would do. Travel, maybe. She would do whatever it takes to stay with Laoren.

It nearly seems the answer to her prayers when Seldan stiffly tells her that he, she, and Mylass Esserah will all be travelling to a tourney over in Riverrun. When at first she is told, Arecel cannot believe her luck. _A tourney to be attended by King Daeron I Targaryen._ There was no chance that Laoren would not be attending.

Arecel’s nerves jitter, and as she prepares to leave her chambers to attend the tourney, she makes sure every detail of her appearance is immaculate. She ties her long black hair up in a simple but elegant knot, and though she may be a septa, she still wears lip rouge and kohl around her eyes. She wears her only appropriate gown. She nearly wishes she weren’t a septa.

The tourney is like nothing Arecel has ever seen before. People are hurt, and she nearly screams in terror when she sees a lance get impaled in someone’s throat. It’s the most violent, gory thing she has seen in her entire life, and she finds herself sitting on the edge of her bench more often than not. After each tilt, Arecel wonders if one of the jousters is her Laoren, her knight in shining armor.

The first day of the tourney ends, and the semi-finals and finals of jousting are the following day as well as the archery tournament, and the melee is the day after. Disheartened by her inability to find Laoren, Arecel only picks at the fine foods. She doesn’t pay attention to the festivities -- but when has she since she let Laoren go?

She barely manages to keep the tears in while she walks back from the feast to her chambers. She hadn’t realized exactly how much hope she had, but now as it starts to fade, all that’s left are the pits of despair. 

She’s passing a courtyard when she hears the twang of a bow and an arrow bounces off the column she’s standing behind. She flattens herself against the column as if that will protect her from any stray arrows. Swallowing her tears and fear, she peaks out from behind the column. She recognizes the pretty yet plain armor of the knight known as Ser Durran. The frustrated sound that the knight makes is not a strange one to her, and it is then that Arecel realizes that this knight is her Laoren. 

She beams, and, making sure that she will not get hit by an arrow in doing so, Arecel steps out from behind the pillar. “It’s been a while, Ser Laoren,” she quips.

The bow clatters to the cobbled floor of the courtyard, and Arecel can nearly taste Laoren’s shock. Arecel glances around to make sure they’re on their own before stepping closer and closer to Laoren until the only thing blocking their lips is Laoren’s helmet. “Arry?” Laoren asks, her voice quivering. 

And then they’re both laughing. It’s illogical, but that’s just love and the relief at seeing one another after months of separation. Even so, they can’t get to Arecel’s rooms quickly enough. The second the door clicks shut and they bolt the door shut, Arecel pulls Laoren’s helmet off.

There’s a scar running along her left cheek from the corner of her mouth to just below her eye, and her face is leaner, less full of baby fat. Her curly hair is as short as it was when she left, and a stray curl hangs down in front of her eye.

Laoren’s breath tickles Arecel’s lips, and then she’s wondering why they’re not snogging. It’s desperate, the way they kiss. It’s been too long for them. Their touches are hard, not gentle, trying to touch and claim as much skin as they can as quickly as possible. Gentleness and want are replaced by pure need. 

Only after they’ve fucked multiple times are they sated, but even then, their snuggling is much more about clutching one another in their arms. They whisper to each other in the darkness, and for the first time since she let Laoren go does Arecel feel happy. 

The next day, Arecel gets a seat closer to the lists for the semifinals and finals. She holds her breath as she watches Ser Durran ride. Ser Durran loses the semi-finals, but Arecel still finds herself more proud of her lover than she would have thought possible.

Arecel sneaks off to meet Ser Durran in her tent. Laoren is just taking off her helmet, a frown on her face. Arecel knows instantly that Laoren had been jousting to win and that a tie for second just isn’t good enough for her. Arecel knows that it’s better not to comment on what Laoren sees as a shortcoming and whispers instead, “I was wondering, why Durran?”

It does the trick, and there’s a smirk on her lover’s face. “Because you’re my Elenei.” They kiss after that, a grin on Arecel’s face as she knows Laoren would classify theirs as an epic romance to remembered through history. 

Laoren doesn’t object to the fact that it is becoming rapidly clear that she will be missing the archery competition (at least not much). “We’re both sworn celibates,” Arecel jokes breathily, casting Laoren a seductive look despite her words.

“Yes, and everyone thinks I’m sworn to fuck girls as part of chivalry, but where can I find a nice, willing girl?” Laoren flirts back, wearing an evil smirk as she trails a finger down Arecel’s front. The only sounds coming from the tent for a while of that are a lot of moans, gasps, and “Gods!”. 

They spend the rest of the day together, hardly able to bear being parted for even short amounts of time. Seldan raises his eyebrows at this, but to Arecel’s relief, he says nothing. Everything falls apart at the melee.

Arecel sits on the edge of her seat and watches with bated breath. Laoren is phenomenal, she soon realizes as she watches the other girl fell opponent after opponent. There are four people left when the fall begins. The largest of the competitors, someone who somehow manages to beat even Seldan for size (Arecel thinks he may be just a tad smaller than the headsepton). He hits her across the chest. Laoren barely manages to make it off the arena and collapses just outside. 

Arecel immediately leaps to her feet, but a maester gets there first. There’s nothing Arecel can do as she hears the maester’s shout of shock or declaration of treason. He heart sinks, and she blinks back what tears she can. There’s no way out of this, she knows. Her heart’s broken once at letting Laoren leave, and she knows that she will have no heart left if she has to watch her Laoren die. 

She nicks a bottle of poison from the maester’s chambers, taking care not to be caught as she sneaks through the corridors. It’s easy to figure out where Laoren’s being held, and it’s easy to sneak inside too. So she does, still clutching that vial of poison.

“They’re going to kill you,” she whispers to Laoren with her voice cracking before she can even finish her first word. 

“I know.”

“There’s nothing I can do to stop it,” she hisses, “but I will not be living without you.” She shuts her eyes as she clutches Laoren close to her chest.

“How?” Laoren asks, running a hand down Arecel’s back.

“Poison,” she whispers, producing the vial from the folds of her dress.

“Please,” Laoren says, a plaintive tone in her voice that just breaks Arecel’s heart. “I don’t want to die, Arry, but if I must, I want to do it on my own terms.” She pushes herself into a sitting position, and her golden eyes meet Arecel’s.

Arecel hands her the poison. “We should have fled to Essos or Sothoryos or Ulthos or anywhere other than here. You could have been a sell-sword or a mercenary and I a travelling healer.” She chuckles, shaking her head bitterly. “Or we could have gone to my home in Dorne.” She sighs, holding Laoren as the other girl drinks from the poison. “Leave some for me.”  
She takes the vial back and takes her own drink and waits for death to claim her. 

Laoren dies minutes before Arecel. Arecel’s sobs echo across the room when the life leaves her lover for good. She doesn’t let go of the body as she lets the vial shatter on the floor. Her strength wanes, and when she can no longer support Laoren’s body, she lays down on top of it. When she shuts her eyes and lets the poison claim her, there is no hope in her shattered heart. All there is is despair at her lover’s death. For once, she isn’t thinking of an afterlife together. This time, she’s only glad she won’t have to bear another second without Laoren and angry at her lover’s death.

Their bodies are only discovered when guards come to take Laoren to where she will be executed, and it causes a clamor all across the kingdoms when people find out.

Arecel and Laoren, septa and knight, star-crossed lovers, is a story that no one tells their kids for fear they’ll end up the same way.


	5. Chapter 5

  
  
  


In the fifth life, they are still in Westeros, but much has changed. The King on the throne has long since gone mad, and unlike before, Wren is, technically, family to him. One would think Wren’s new familial situation a good thing, and for the first year, it is. He has a mother, Cassana Estermont Baratheon, and a father, Steffon Baratheon. He has two brothers also, but one starts fostering at the Eyrie shortly after Wren is reborn as Renly Baratheon.

Everything goes south by the time Renly is one, however. His parents were sent on a mission to find a bride for the crown prince and fail. Before they even return to Westeros, they die in Shipbreaker Bay outside Storm’s End. All three Baratheon boys watch, but only the elder two remember it, remember their parents. 

Things fall even further when Renly is five. His brother’s betrothed goes and elopes with the already married crown prince. Robert starts a war to get her back, but in the end, it’s futile and brings the land to its knees. Robert becomes king, but he can’t get Lyanna Stark back. She dies in the so-called Tower of Joy in the arms of her brother, Robert’s closest friend and chosen brother. 

But Robert’s war hurts millions, and Renly Baratheon and his middle brother are no exceptions to that rule. During the war, their family home of Storm’s End is besieged by the forces of Lords Tyrell and Redwyne. The siege lasts nearly a year of Renly’s life. The food supplies are depleted quickly, and they’re left eating rats. Renly’s five, but he understands that the men camped outside, feasting, are trying to kill them. He understands that, but he doesn’t understand why. 

But then come the Onion Knight and Ned Stark, and Renly’s able to leave Storm’s End again and play like a regular boy. Part of him knows that no one is meant to be as alone as he, but he’s too young to contemplate that. His brother gives him a lordship for his seventh birthday and sends the closest people he has to family away, and his middle brother hates -- nay, resents -- him ever after. 

So when, at age fourteen, Renly is informed that he’ll be getting a squire, he’s excited because it means he might finally have a friend. And while he turns out to be more right than he knows, it takes a little while to get there. Loras Tyrell is his new squire, and when his squire’s brother comes to drop him off, Renly feels his optimism deteriorate rather quickly. It’s abundantly clear that his squire, from the same family that besieged his home so many years ago, doesn’t want to be here.

Renly still goes out of his way to try to make Storm’s End more comfortable for his squire, but Loras still seems so dreadfully unimpressed. And, faced with Loras’s scorn every single day, Renly does what he can to avoid his squire because seeing him so makes his heart hurt. But then, that all changes. 

It’s not subtle when it does change. It’s not the type of change that one only realizes when looking back and remembering how different everything was. No, this is the type of change with a blatant tipping point. 

It’s been about six months since Loras arrived when it finally happens. Renly is walking down one of the corridors when he hears _it_ \-- a muffled sound coming from one of the alcoves. Renly frowns when he hears it. He has spent only the minimum time with his squire, but those muffled sobs sound a lot like that arrogant boy. 

“Loras?” he asks quietly, furrowing his brow. It is a surprise to see his squire like this, and it goes against everything seen of the boy. He’s used to the arrogance, the brash and brazenness, the scorn. This . . . well, Renly isn’t sure what he thinks of this. This isn’t how it should be, he decides almost instantly. 

His squire looks balefully up at him. “My lord?” 

Renly can’t help but sit beside him and put a gentle hand on his squire’s shoulder. Loras freezes for a moment before leaning into the touch. “What’s wrong?”

Loras looks hesitant to open up to him, and Renly wonders that if for all his arrogance and apparent lack of love for Storm’s End he needs a friend as much as Renly. He feels guilt wash over him. “I-I want my family,” he mumbles.

Renly looks at Loras and gives him a hesitant smile. He’s not sure what to do. When he wanted comfort as a child, no one gave it to him, so now, he doesn’t know what to do. He takes a shaky breath. “I’m sorry,” he whispers then, “I wish I had a family that I could miss.”

And then he stills as Loras throws his arms around him. He’s never had a hug before, and so it’s incredibly awkwardly that he hugs Loras back. 

And after that, they are friends. Renly takes care of Loras, and Loras is attached to Renly like a burr. Loras is always trying to distract Renly form his duties to do something together like swim or spar or go for a ride. Half the time, he fails and just sits with Renly, trying to keep the older boy company while only disturbing him a little. Renly finds that silent companionship oddly comforting, and he wonders if this is how most people always feel.

Sometimes, however, Renly does give in to Loras’s pleading, and the day is spent in a carefree way. Renly loves that too, the time simply spent with another person doing something fun. It lightens his heavy heart, and he enjoys it more than he could have imagined. With Loras, he discovers all the things he’s been missing all his life, and he wishes that he could have discovered all this sooner.

But separate from Loras, he is discovering other things about himself -- namely that women truly don’t appeal to him. He tries, going so far as to try to sleep with one once, but to his dismay, he just isn’t most men and just can’t get it up. He walks away from the woman, his cheeks red and his every step laden with the weight of his embarrassment. He then decides he ought to pretend that he is like most men for truth, but he doesn’t. Instead, he just doesn’t try with women or with men, and he dreads the prospect of marriage more than words may say.

That’s all fine until Loras is thirteen and starts going through puberty. His once childish face starts changing into a man’s face, his body becoming lean and leaner. He can no longer be described as cute; instead, he’s pretty. Renly isn’t sure if he wants to be closer to his lovely squire or take the fastest ship to Essos or further. 

He eventually decides that his budding crush really is nothing to ruin their friendship over. He spends more time with his squire and casts him lingering glances when he thinks Loras won’t notice. Every hug he leans into just a bit too much. He blushes a lot around Loras now as well, and he knows that Loras finds that rather adorable.

He scarcely notices when Loras’s touches him for just a bit too long. He scarcely notices when a rose will sometimes appear on his desk or on his bed or in his window. He tries not to, at the very least, because Loras is so young, four years younger than he is. He couldn’t start something with Loras. He couldn’t ruin everything with him over his feelings. He ignores the part of him that remembers that Loras clearly reciprocates those feelings in favor of being horrified that he’d be forcing Loras into these feelings.

He can’t deny it any longer when he finally turns sixteen and is has to go on his coming-of-age tour. It’s subtle at first, the way Loras watches him at the feasts with narrowed eyes and thin lips. Renly doesn’t notice that. But by the time he’s been to Fawnton, Amberly, Bronzegate, and Haystack Hall, it’s painfully obvious.

Loras starts being short with him and avoiding him as much as possible. It hurts Renly’s heart that it keeps happening, but by the time they journey all the way from Haystack Hall to Evenfall Hall, Renly can stand it no longer.

After the first night of feasting there, his mouth tasting incurably of fish, his mind buzzing with the sweet plum wine Lord Selwyn favors, and his limbs tired from dancing with the many ladies, even Brienne, he decides to confront his squire. 

“Loras,” he asks after his squire has prepared him a bath. He knows that his squire can’t disappear quite yet. He’d have to leave the room first, and that will take a moment.

“Yes?” Loras replies, something strange in his voice. 

“Are you quite alright?” 

“Yes.”

And that’s that. Renly knows not to press Loras -- his squire would just become more sulky, more closed off to any concern. So he’s quiet, his worry a constant theme as he watches his squire starts being generally antagonistic to anyone who comes near him. Renly is quite alarmed, but as they travel from keep to keep, there is very little he can do about it. 

At least, that is until one day, the day before they are meant to leave Grandview, when Renly hears a commotion out in a nearby courtyard. He pauses what he’s doing and frowns, putting his book on his bed. Normally, he would put _that_ book in the most hidden spot he can manage, but he’s in too much of a hurry to straighten his clothes and kill his erection before leaving his chambers to do so.

He races down to the source of the commotion only to find a couple of his lords shouting angrily at one another and down a nearby corridor. When Renly frowns and inquires whatever could be the matter, some garbled phrases about “your blasted, bloodthirsty squire” and “attacked me with a sword larger than himself” and “nearly took my head off” are given in response.

But said squire isn’t anywhere to be seen, so Renly heads back to his chambers -- though he does not intend to leave off where he left off. He sighs and walks over to sit back down on his bed before he realizes that he is not alone in the room.

“Loras?” he asks, looking at the squire who is sitting on the corner of his bed. 

Loras looks between Renly and the book that Renly had left out earlier. Renly fails to notice that, however, being a bit more preoccupied with the fact his squire is in his bedchamber.

“Renly,” Loras mumbled, a slight flush on his cheeks. Renly decides he quite likes it there. “Er, so you left this book out on your bed. . . .”

Renly frowns for a moment and asks which book it is before remembering. He tries not to curse. Tries is the keyword because he fails miserably, muttering, “Shit.” His pallid skin flushes, turning red from the tips of his ears across his cheekbones.

“And I was wondering if we could, uh, do some of the stuff in it,” Loras says, his voice quietly. He’s blushing as furiously as Renly. 

Renly’s head snaps up as he stares at his squire, and his lips form a perfect ‘o’. He tries to figure out what to say, but his brain is mush and he can hardly even think.

“Renly? Say something? Please?” Loras says nervously. And then Renly is kissing him, leaning down so that he may capture his squire’s lips. Loras kisses him back instantly and moans into his mouth when he nibbles on his lower lips. From there, it’s just hands roaming each other’s bodies, trying to feel everything. Their clothes are taken off as quickly as they can manage, and then there’s very little thinking as they attempt multiple chapters of Renly’s book consecutively.

They repeat the experience as frequently as possible as they finish Renly’s tour of the Stormlands. When they arrive back at Storm’s End, they’re almost immediately called to King’s Landing for a tourney. Renly doesn’t want to go and is of half a mind to tell his royal brother to just fuck off, but he doesn’t because Loras seems excited by the prospect. 

Renly knows he is going to let Loras compete, but he also knows that Loras won’t be going back to Storm’s End after, and that excites him a lot less. The tourney itself goes well. Too well, Renly thinks sadly as he lets his mind wander to how he will have to knight his lover and squire. 

He watches the tourney with bated breath, unwilling to look away for a second in case something dreadful happen. It doesn’t, however, and in fact, it is going rather well. Loras defeats opponent after opponent until he is in the semi-finals. Renly sees his opponent, the Kingslayer, and sighs. He knows there is no way Loras will win, but he bets on his squire nonetheless. He’s right, but Loras, though losing, is not unhorsed.

The crowd loves him, and Renly knows that more than a few of the commons will be put out if he does not knight Loras. So, heavy in his heart, he does so. Loras doesn’t look as happy about the situation as one may expect either.

While Renly waits for Loras’s vigil to be done, he is called to the king’s chambers. Renly doesn’t know why he’s being called there -- it’s not like his brother actually cares for him, after all. He trudges down the corridors of the Red Keep until he arrives. He knocks on the door, and it’s opened for him a moment later.

“Come in,” Robert growls, and Renly hastens to obey.

He stands there awkwardly, not truly moving past the doorframe in case he needs to make a fast getaway. Robert just rolls his eyes at him. “I want you on my Small Council, Renly.”

Renly just blinks, but after only a short hesitation, he accepts. He doesn’t necessarily want to be in the den of lions, but he is ambitious, and being in the capital would let him see Loras more often at tourneys and the like. He walks out of this brother’s rooms with a grin on his face.

He’s still grinning when his Loras returns from his night-long knightly vigil in the Sept. He tells Loras the news. Loras is just as thrilled as he is, though Renly does see that he worries about Renly’s safety when dealing with the men of the Small Council.

All too soon, however, this tourney ends. They have to wait for a couple more months before Robert comes up with some other excuse for a tourney to be held in the capital. This tourney is grander and more extravagant than the last with all the decent and good and spectacular knights and lords competing in it. 

Renly and Loras pay the same smith to create their armor specially for it, and though they go down together for it, they make a pact they’re not allowed to see it until the day of the tourney. They spend most of their free time going through the city together, shagging, or running their horses along the roads together. 

It makes Renly happy, and it is for these times that he is able to stand the time they spend apart. Renly and Loras learn that this tourney is something special, however, and this time together worth so, so much. 

Loras and Renly see each other’s armor for the first time on the tilts. They are both awed by the money they put into it, and later, neither will be able to decide who is more turned on by whose. They aren’t able to do anything about it until later, so after an early dehorsing, Renly sits in the stands and tries to cover his erection discreetly while betting with the Lannisters, Littlefinger, Robert, and anyone else who will participate. 

Renly has troubles looking away from Loras for even a second. He holds his breath each time Loras’s horse gallops down the lists. He tries to ignore exactly how arousing he finds Loras’s skills with a lance (to no avail). He is not at all surprised when Loras makes it to the semifinals. He’s not surprised when Loras unhorses the Hound and makes it to the finals either. And then Loras rides against Ser Jaime Lannister.

Though he has faith in his lover, Loras has faced the Kingslayer before and lost, and though Renly bets for his lover, what he bets is a couple hundred gold crowns he doesn’t ever expect to see again. He gets every single one of them back, and he and his eldest brother suddenly find themselves much richer. The crowds love Loras and cheer him on, dubbing him “The Knight of the Flowers.” Loras, Renly discovers, despises that name.

Renly and Loras slip away before the tourney feast to fuck in a small alcove. They have to be quiet,but they are only able to keep the noise down so much -- both of them are just so really fucking horny. It’s only after round two, when neither can stand easily for fear of his legs collapsing, that they finally make it to the feast. Renly’s aware that they both look rather scruffy, and despite his reputation, he can hardly find it in himself to care. 

They make it through the feast, casting each other wistful looks when they think no one else may see them, and the second the feast is over, they meet up in the halls. They stumble less than some of the others, but they’re still clumsy as they sneak off to Renly’s chambers. 

The shag a few more times that night, but as they lay still, Loras’s head resting against Renly’s chest, Loras whispers, “You’d make a great king.”

This first time, it’s not so much a suggestion so much as an amalgam of adoration, flirting, and jest. Loras runs a hand down Renly’s chest as he says it, but Renly can only laugh it off. “And you’d make the greatest of jesters! I’m fourth in line, luv! You flatter me overmuch forsooth!” 

They laugh then, but as the suggestion is repeated, it becomes less and less jocund. Renly doesn’t find it at all disturbing, not really, thought the pressure Loras always puts behind it can be a tad disconcerting. 

All in all, however, they’re happy, meeting in secret whenever they can secure enough time. It’s not ideal, and they both know it, but it works, and for truth, that is what really counts in the end. 

There worlds are shaken when Renly is around twenty. He’s been the Master of Laws for years now, and Loras is one of the most renowned knights in existence. In all Renly’s tim at King’s Landing, Jon Arryn has been the Hand of the King, the man that deals with Robert’s pejorative carping the most. 

It’s hard for Renly to imagine Jon Arryn, a rock in the turmoils of the capital, being gone. But there it is, in just a matter of days, one of the strongest men Renly has ever known is dead, gone. He isn’t sure what to think. 

His brothers both leave the capital -- Robert to go implore his old friend Ned to be his new hand and Stannis to go hide himself away in Dragonstone. Renly would feel alone if it weren’t for Loras. People adore him, adore the parties he throws, but they don’t adore _him_ , none except for his lover.

So Renly is subjected to weeks of just Pycelle, Barristan, and Littlefinger in the Small Council. It’s worse when he’s sent north as part of Robert’s honor guard, he reckons, however, because he is away from Loras.

The few months with Ned Stark as Hand of the King are interesting to say the least. Ned Stark has his own way of doing things that Renly (and anyone else with half a brain for politics) finds completely impractical. Renly fails to see what his brother ever saw in this man. If his brother were like him, he’d think him half in love with the man.

And then everything goes even further south when Robert drags Renly on yet another hunting trip. Part of him wonders why he even bothers following this man that he can’t stand, this man who cares nothing for him. But he masquerades as that dutiful brother he’s expected to be, plastering a grin to his face.

What Renly sees that day cannot be unseen, and by the Seven Gods and their Seven respective Hells, he wishes he can unsee it. The _blood_. Renly has never liked blood, not the sight of, the smell of it, not even the idea of it. Yet here the blood gushes from his brother’s gut, drowning the world in scarlet. He resists the urge to vomit as he rushes to Robert’s side, the blood dampening his hands, his clothes as he does so. He wishes he could just run away, that fleeing can make everything better. 

It doesn’t. He can’t remember how to cry or even know if he can as he makes his way back to the Red Keep. He shivers, but he doesn’t realize it. He doesn’t sleep either as he watches his brother put in the bed. Renly knows that his brother will never get back up. He paces, utterly unsure of what to do with himself. 

Finally, he’s told that his brother wants milk of the poppy. His brother won’t wake back up, they say. He tells Loras that they’re leaving then and there, in the dead of night. He only tells Loras that they’re going to Highgarden and to be declared traitors to the crown when they’ve been on the Rose Road for well-nigh an entire day.

They stop at an inn that night, giving no one their names. They’re sure everyone already knows anyway. That night, as they bask in the afterglow, the moon their only light, Renly asks, “Do you think I would make a good king, Loras?”

Leaning in close so that their noses touch, Loras purrs, “You would make a wonderful king.” He presses his lips against Renly’s, nibbling on the lower. He grinds down on Renly’s rapidly hardening erection. “You would be _my_ king.”

There’s very little talking the rest of the night, and they wake before dawn to continue on their way to Loras’s home. They arrive a few days later, travel-weary. Neither of their households are in   
any better condition than they themselves are. They decide that they will declare Renly king, and they call both the banners of the Reach and the Stormlands. 

Everyone answers.

King Renly creates his camp in Bitterbridge, near the border of the Stormlands and the Reach. Everyone seems more than happy for him to be king, to go to war for Renly to rule. Everyone thinks he would be good at it. Renly marries Margaery, but his heart always has been and always will be Loras’s, his Lord’s, his Lancion’s, his Lysan’s, his Laoren’s. Renly’s never felt so alone while in this life.

He hosts a tourney, and to everyone’s shock, Loras is bested by one of his bannermen’s daughter, a homely, martial girl by the name of Brienne. The mother of the King in the North, Lady Catelyn Tully Stark, arrives to, to negotiate on her son’s behalf.

Stannis decides to attack shortly after too, and so Renly parlays with his last remaining family. King Renly is not shocked that the parlay fails, and frankly, neither is Loras. They slip off to the woods for a few minutes, just the two of them, wanting time alone before Renly must negotiate with the Stark woman.

Their kisses and touches are desperate, frenzied, as if they know that everything is going to end soon. They part as the sun goes down over the trees, and Renly and Loras begin the feast. It’s only after the feast that Renly meets with the lady of the North in his tent for negotiations. 

The shit hits the fan shortly after when Renly’s own shadow seems to turn against him. It cuts through his armor, and he’s dead in seconds, his own blood seeping into the earth. He’s oblivious to Brienne and Catelyn’s shock. He would not have cared so much about that in life than he would about what happens next.

Ser Loras Tyrell, youngest son to Mace Tyrell and the Knight of the Flowers, breaks. His rage is implacable. Sers Emmon Cuy and Robar Royce fall to his rage as he blames them for his king’s death. He blames Brienne too. He doesn’t want to live without Renly. In truth, he doesn’t really know how.

Broken and sobbing in his sister’s arms, his tears staining her dress, he decides he can live for revenge. Revenge he could do. He wants Renly’s murderers to pay. He wants. . . . He doesn’t know if he can truly live on his own without Renly. Renly is his everything, and he’s lost.

At the Battle of Blackwater, he tries so hard to fit into Renly’s armor. The edges of the steel plates dig into his flesh before his brother tells him that he can’t wear it. He cries again then, but he holds it together through the battle. There’s something _satisfying_ about killing Stannis’s men, men who should have been loyal to Renly.

And then, he asks for a place in the Kingsguard of a tyrant. Gods, he swears, he is a shadow of a man. He is not the man he was with Renly, and there is nothing happy about him even when he smiles. Each breath aches, and Loras just wants for it all to end. 

He is glad Renly isn’t there to see him like this. He doesn’t know what to think as he hears Brienne’s tale, but he lets her live. Stannis, he decides after weighing the possibilities, is the culprit, responsible for everything.

When he is given the opportunity, he leaps for vengeance with an almost fevered glee. He leads the men at Dragonstone, serves in the the vanguard. He attacks with a desperate sort of fury, the type of hate that is truly implacable. 

He attacks the fortifications for hours. He’s wounded with a mace, the very weapon his father is named for. They are about to break through the wall into the castle proper when it hits him. Boiling oil that chews his skin, making it bubble and melt again. His skin, the sticky remains of it, will stick to the inside of his armor, making it a permanent fixture. 

He doesn’t cry because he is past his tears now. He is vengeance. He’s killed so many of Stannis’s men by the time he finally succumbs to his weakness and injuries, and those deaths are the proudest in his life. 

They say he snapped when he saw Renly’s body and slowly recovered; they’re wrong, because this is the end of his long descent into the pits of the Seven Hells.

He feels nothing when he dies: no pain, no anger, no anything. He’s been broken for so long that death may be nothing but a release and a prayer that one day he’ll see his love anew.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The challenge from the previous challenge, a.k.a. figuring out who the headsepton is, is still open, and the prize, my answering one of your prompts, is still the same. Multiple guesses are permitted.
> 
> Hints: he canonically dislikes Loras.
> 
> Also, as always, feedback is loved.
>
>> A Virto Musae   
> By the Virtue of the Muse


	6. Chapter 6

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Felicitations to both The_Rose_And_Stag and Cassie Pontmercy who guessed correctly on the challenge with the answer of Ser Gregor Clegane! I shall write a response to one prompt from each! =)

  
  
  


The sixth life begins in much the same way as all of the others: Wren and Lord are born in some strange new world as new people that are somehow the same as they’ve always been. This life is going to be easier, more convenient in many ways, one can see from the beginning. Westeros, where once again they are born, is much a different land than it has been before. The industrial revolution is a couple of centuries behind, and running water, electricity, and the internet are beloved conveniences. These are hallmarks of an easier time, but forsooth, these are not what cause everything to change.

Gay rights activists and the Marriage Equality Act are. Now, for the first time, their love is not one frowned upon by the world. Some people will still take issue with it, of course, but much of the social stigmas and societal qualms have dissipated immensely. 

But this isn’t the story of social change but the story of Wren and Lord, returned time and time again the the world because of a promise they make at the beginning of ages. And so it is again, for now, five hundred years since the War of the Five Kings, Wren and Lord are returned again. Wren in this life is called Rhienlys Targaryen, heir to a long since dethroned dynasty. He has two older brothers, Ragaeron and Caegalyx, and a younger sister, Saenyra. He had parents too, but those were long-forgotten, and Rhienlys never knows whether they abandoned him and his siblings or simply died. No one talks about them.

He is raised in a boarding school and sees very little of his family growing up, but that’s good in its own way because he rarely sees how little they care for him. Rhienlys is smart, getting high marks on all his papers, and he gets accepted by the Sea Dragon Point Private College, a small school in the North that is the most exclusive college for history a person can go to without leaving Westeros for Sothoryos or the far reaches of Essos.

He graduates with honors around the time his eldest brother, Ragaeron, is funding an archaeological expedition to Old Valyria. He offers a lead position to Rhienlys, who accepts in less than a heartbeat. This is his dream and this is what he’s studied for, after all. Caegalyx comes too, taking a different leadership position. Ragaeron leads it even though he is terribly unsuited for the position.

Rhienlys enjoys his work, however. He gets to do what he always wanted to do. Life is good, he knows, even though his brothers would never accept the fact he’s gay. What doesn’t help with that is the intern he gets. The kid, Lorgan Tymber, is a couple years younger than he is and still a student in some southern college down in the Reach.

Lorgan flirts with him constantly, using every bit of his charm on him. Actually, Rhienlys is generally the only person that Lorgan is actually charming with. Lorgan is the prettiest person (“I’m handsome, Rhi! Pretty’s for girls!”) Rhienlys has ever met. His tawny and gold curls tumble down past his shoulders, so he tends to tie them back, but no matter what he does, this one curl hangs in front of his right eye. His eyes. . . . Those could easily be the most stunning part of his intern, Rhienlys reckons. They’re a deep amber color, but there are golden flecks in them that Rhienlys thinks could replace the sun and light the world. 

Rhienlys wishes he could ignore the flirting and the lingering touches. He was out at school, but that was school, not home or here with his illogically unaccepting brothers. He doesn’t know how to say the words because they’ll change his life, and he doesn’t know if it would be for better or for worse. 

He tries not to get erections every time Lorgan so much as looks at him, but really, there’s only so much he can do for that. It’s not too terribly problematic ordinarily, but it is rather an issue when it happens during a management meeting with both his brothers, and at this point, his little sister’s evil shit of a boyfriend. 

He flushes as Lorgan runs a hand along his shoulders as he walks by to give Rhienlys papers. His brothers look at him strangely, but they say nothing, so Rhienlys figures they haven’t notice. But it’s then that Rhienlys realizes exactly how much he wants to be able to be open to his brothers and kiss and fuck Lorgan until he can no longer think. 

It’s a couple weeks later that everything does change for the better, that he stops ignoring Lorgan’s advances. It’s well after the work for the day is done and the sun has set, making their flashlights and the bonfire the only source of light. They are sitting with some of the others and playing Never Have I Ever with cheap, homemade beer.

Every time that he’s done something, Rhienlys can feel it getting harder and harder to resist Lorgan’s flirting glances. Of course, Rhienlys honestly hasn’t done much of what his colleagues haven’t done, but he’s done enough that he still finds himself getting steadily more and more intoxicated.

It must be approaching midnight when on Lorgan’s turn, his intern declares, “Never have I ever slept with the person I love.” He looks over at Rhienlys while he says it and winks. Rhienlys blushes and casts a furtive look around. He still can’t believe what he has just heard. _Love?_

Rhienlys forces himself to meet Lorgan’s gaze. If he really didn’t want their flirtation to continue, now would be such an easy time to end it. All he would have to do is take a swig of his beer. He doesn’t, though, and Lorgan grins at him. 

The game ends before Rhienlys’s next turn, and the people linger. Saenyra, his sister, turns on The Oldtown Rebels’ new EP via her new uPhone from Peach. People start dancing, and maybe it’s just the alcohol making him forget his brothers, but Lorgan gets Rhienlys to dance with him.

The dancing is fast before the songs begin to slow down with the next band, Tears of the Lysene. Lorgan rests his head against Rhienlys’s chest. Rhienlys finds his hand trailing down Lorgan’s back. It takes so much of his effort not to snog the boy right then and there, and then, as the music winds down, all that effort comes to naught.

They’re standing away from the fire, the healthy glow from the flames licking their feet but not illuminating them themselves. Rhienlys can feel Lorgan staring at him and leaning towards him. Rhienlys knows that they should be heading back to their respective tents where they can sleep for the night. But they don’t and Rhienlys leans in also until his lips are connected to Lorgan’s.

And then there’s just kissing, the press of body against body and lips against lips. They do start back towards the tents then. Rhienlys isn’t sure what it is -- the alcohol or the sheer Lorgan-ness -- that deletes his inhibitions so. He honestly can’t find it in himself to care either. Why should he so long as Lorgan’s nibbling at his tongue, running hands up and down his body, and hard against him?

They barely make it back to Rhienlys’s tent before clothes go flying. Rhienlys can’t remember a time he’s ever felt happier, more blissful, than now, here with Lorgan in every way possible.

The morning, however, is not so simple. Rhienlys feels almost helpless -- a feeling that brings with it a strange sense of deja vu and utter terror. He craves more, needs it, hungers to fuck Lorgan again not just because Lorgan is a fantastic shag. Lorgan is everything he craves, Rhienlys knows, and he’d be damned if he let that slip away. 

But he can’t help the horror that rises within him when he thinks about what his brothers would do if they were to know that he is gay. He hears them talk about the “faggots” on a fairly regular basis, and it makes him feel so sick. Rhienlys tries to resist the urge to shudder while thinking of it. He looks down at Lorgan’s still sleeping form and then, all thoughts of his brothers are gone from his mind.

This boy, he knows, will be worth whatever pain, and he can’t understand his earlier hesitation. 

Lorgan stirs, and Rhienlys grins. Rhienly’s smile broadens as Lorgan yawns and stretches before finally sitting up and looking Rhienlys in the eye. Rhienlys is surprised by how vulnerable his usually audacious intern looks. He opens his mouth to ask what’s wrong when Lorgan asks, “You don’t regret it, do you?”

Rhienlys’s mouth falls open. _How could Lorgan think that?_ he wonders before realizing he already has the answer: the fact Rhienlys had been trying not to flirt back for the entire time they’ve known each other and only just gave in. _Well, I’ll just have to fix that._ “No, Lorgan, never.” He leans in and presses a soft kiss to Lorgan’s lips. “I’ve been such an idiot up until last night.”

He doesn’t see Lorgan’s smile before the other boy threads his hand through Rhienlys’s black hair and pulls him into another kiss.

Rhienlys feels a pressure in his chest, as if it’s about to burst. This is everything he could possibly want, being with Lorgan. He decides then and there that he won’t let that happen, no matter what happens. 

“So we’re boyfriends then,” Lorgan declares, and though Rhienlys thinks it is meant as a question, it is not a question. It’s a statement of fact, and more than anything, Lorgan sounds as if he’s challenging Rhienlys to disagree.

He doesn’t. He doesn’t think he could even if he wanted to. “Yes,” he agrees instead. He furrows his brows for a second before rummaging through a nearby bag and pulling out a small pin in the shape of the Targaryen dragon and hands it to his new boyfriend. “Keep this.”

He loves the grin that lights up his boyfriend’s face. Lorgan in turn stuffs his hand into his pocket and pulls out a seven-pointed star pendant. “It was my mother’s,” he whispers to Rhienlys, mouth against his ear as his hands stuff it into Rhienlys’s open palm. He closes Rhienlys’s palm around the pendant. “I want it to be yours now.”

“Thank you,” Rhienlys breathes. He glances around his tent for a chain, but he finds none, so he slips it into his breast pocket. He can’t find any more words. He had wanted to tell Lorgan that they would have to keep their relationship a secret one, but seeing how happy the intern is, he just can’t quite manage it. 

They hug for a long moment before getting up to face the world. The day is bright, unnervingly so, and Rhienlys thinks he quite likes the unfamiliarity of it. That day, as he works, he can’t help but whistle, a silly grin on his face. He avoids Ragaeron, for while he knows most of his colleagues would not comment on the hickey on his neck and the poorly disguised scratch marks on his arms, his eldest brother would, and that would lead to unpleasant realizations for sure. 

He makes it a lot longer than he would have expected, ignoring his family. He doesn’t really even notice how he doesn’t talk to them, and he wonders that if it means they were never his family anyway. He tries not to think of that, though, of the family he’s never loved and always feared. And he’s happy, and though he’s had a relatively happy life, he’s happier than before. His smile comes easily, and his heart is lighter, and with time, his worries about his family finding out become less and less.

But then, what he had dreaded does come to pass. It’s a surprise when it happens, too, not yet even sunrise. And it’s not even Ragaeron who finds them, either. It’s Caegalyx and Saenyra, the middle brother and his younger sister. 

There’s a rustle at the front of his tent, and Rhienlys sits bolt upright, wondering what exactly is happening. He covers Lorgan with his blanket, and he hopes that the boy won’t give everything away. 

“Rhienlys?” Caegalyx asks, eying his torso. 

Rhienlys resists the urge to curse somehow, just barely. There are bite and scratch marks on his bare chest. Usually they would be hidden by his favored black, green, and gold polo shirts, but now, here, they are visible for the whole world to see, and his siblings are the ones seeing it.

Saenyra, for her part, pouts. “You’ve got a lover and you haven’t said anything? I thought we were closer than that, bro.” 

Rhienlys smiles sheepishly. “Yeah, I’ve been seeing someone.” He rubs the back of his neck, the tips of his ears turning a bright red. “Surprise!”

“Tell me that your lover isn’t here with us right now,” Caegalyx says, his voice alarmingly even. Rhienlys wonders if he’s just angry because he’s jealous because he’s not getting any. Of course, Rhienlys is about to say that no, his lover isn’t here when Lorgan yawns and stretches, accidentally shifting the duvet down so that it barely covers both their waists. Caegalyx grinds his teeth. “Rhienlys! Why are you with a man? It is unnatural.”

The words are familiar ones, and the response is familiar too. “No, it is love, and it’s more than you’ve ever gotten.” Blue-purple eyes meet blue-purple eyes then, equally deep, and equally uncomprehending. It hurts, and there’s this squeezing in his heart that feels like agony even though Rhienlys has known that it would eventually come to this.

“It is against the gods, whom we must obey, brother. I assure you, you will be going to the Seven Hells for this, and I will make sure Ragaeron hears of this!” Caegalyx says, and everyone knows that it is no idle threat but a promise. 

And it is that afternoon, when all are forced to dine together in a covered pavilion, that the middle brother makes good on his word. Rhienlys and Lorgan are eating off in a corner, still near enough to the head table that it’s still socially acceptable. In fact, it’s been long enough that Rhienlys has begun to wonder if the promise is merely a threat. 

But then Caegalyx stands, and his heart plummets. Of course that was too good a hope, that Caegalyx would not follow through on his word. He slips his hand into Lorgan’s and hopes that he can draw all the comfort he so desperately needs from that small touch. 

All attention is on Caegalyx, and then, his predictable older brother does something Rhienlys would not have expected, even in a million years. He sits down. Rhienlys and Lorgan share a look of utter surprise, and they both shiver as they feel Caegalyx’s icy gaze upon them.

After the feast, Caegalyx intercepts them on the way to their tent. Rhienlys is not surprised by this. He knew that Caegalyx would put conditions on his “kindness” of earlier, and here is his proof. He’s saddened by the fact he expects it, but part of him thinks it would be strange not to hate, not to fear his brothers. 

It is to Rhienlys’s relief that the condition is only that they don’t behave out of line. Rhienlys plans to obey, seeing as this is his job, after all, and this is his dream come true. Lorgan, however, looks more than a little put out with Caegalyx’s request. Then again, Rhienlys can’t claim he’s thrilled about being in his brother’s debt either, and he gets along with Caegalyx a million times better than Lorgan ever will.

That night, as they lie in bed, Lorgan’s head on Rhienlys’s bare chest, Lorgan whispers, “Come with me.” Rhienlys raises an eyebrow at the request, but Lorgan gets up (Rhienlys can’t help but frown at that) and puts on his jeans without bothering with his underwear first. 

“Where are we going?” He doesn’t get a response, but he gets up and puts his clothes on (all of them, of course, because potentially being seen in anything less is unthinkable). He ignores Lorgan’s smirk and the rakish look he drags up his body as he gets dressed. He’s hard, and he tries so, so hard to ignore it as he follows Lorgan through the Ruins of Valyria. 

He doesn’t even register it at first when suddenly he’s not following Lorgan any longer and his back is pressed against the cold stones. He gasps, but it’s not for help of from fear or any of that. It’s lust because Lorgan is pressing their lips together, nibbling at his lower lips and palming his cock through his pants. His gasps are quickly infused with moans, and he has to shut his eyes.

And then the sensations go as quickly as they came. Lorgan unzips his own trousers before divesting Rhienlys of all his clothing. Rhienlys casts him a wary look, at once aroused and fearful of discovery. 

He soon realizes how much of a fool he was to have ever been worried. Lorgan takes him skinny-dipping in the dark, well beyond the borders of the camp, and no one catches them. Rhienlys finds himself enjoying this more than he would ever have expected, and after a proper shag, they tease and flirt and chase each other around, in the water and through the deserted ruins, not caring about their nakedness. 

Rhienlys loves it more than he’s ever loved anything except for Lorgan, and not for the first time, he wonders why he ever even tried to deny Lorgan.

They start doing things like that more often, too. In the midst of work and flirting and lingering touches, they horse around and have fun. Sometimes, they get dinner and eat in private and others, they try to make each other jealous, and still other, they try to be together even in plain sight and still keep it away from the eldest brother. 

They’re happy, happier than they’ve ever been before. Rhienlys can’t help the suspicious glances he casts around, as if they might take everything from him. He doesn’t feel like everything can last. Part of him knows that it never does, and that he should be on the lookout for anything that can make it go away. He can’t bring himself even to do that.

But it isn’t his brothers that change everything. No, instead, it’s Lorgan. He doesn’t leave, or say they need to stop, not like they’ve both done so many times before. Instead, he takes them to a place just a little closer to the base camp before they play. It’s night, and technically, they’re both off duty. 

But Lorgan is chasing Rhienlys on the ruins when it happens. He accidentally hits a stone to hard, and he curses when he hears the crack that echoes through the area. He closes his eyes, as if that will keep everything from unfolding. It doesn’t, and the broken stone tumbles to the ground.

Lorgan catches up and asks him what’s wrong. Rhienlys just points, and Lorgan curses. They gather their clothes and head back to their tents. 

The next day, Rhienlys is called to Ragaeron’s tent. He doesn’t know that it’s for what happened the previous night, but he suspects. Rhienlys holds his breath as he steps into the canvas room, hoping beyond hope that it isn’t what he fears, though he isn’t sure what he fears more-- Ragaeron knowing of his relationship or being reprimanded for the occurrence of the night before. 

Rhienlys is met with the sight of both his brothers and his sisters. Caegalyx just gives him a disapproving stare, just as he always does and grinds his teeth. Ragaeron is red of face and standing, and Rhienlys could swear he feels his brother’s blistering rage from here. His sister gives him a sympathetic look, but he knows she’ll do nothing to help him. She never does. 

And so Rhienlys meets Ragaeron’s rage alone, Lorgan outside waiting for him. “What the fuck have you done?! How fucking dare you break a piece of _our homeland_!I don’t fucking well care if you are a member of our shite family, brother, I can’t have someone who thinks it’s okay to fuck around on the job here! You are fired!”

Rhienlys blinks and takes a breath to steady himself. He knows his face is blanched, and it feels as if the very ground is dropped from his feet. He doesn’t know what to do. He’s leaving, he knows that much. He’s shocked and horrified that he’s leaving, but it doesn’t hurt the way he knows it should. It was his dream, but he wonders if he was truly happy here, hiding pieces of himself and living in the shadows.

He tells Lorgan, and Lorgan isn’t overly concerned, but that’s just Lorgan. “So we’ll make a home on our own. We’ll be okay, you and me. We always are.” And with that, he presses a kiss to Rhienlys’s lips, and for then, everything is alright. 

Rhienlys packs his belongings, and Lorgan hands his notice into Ragaeron before following suit, Only two days later, they’re gone, leaving Valyria and Rhienlys’s family behind them. They take a ferry across the Narrow Sea, back to Westeros, and they end up taking the train from Dorne to Lorgan’s family home, a small town near Highgarden.

They share Lorgan’s old room, as they don’t have much money and have nowhere else to go. They get jobs at a fastfood chain while they look for proper jobs that fit in with the degrees they’ve gotten. Lorgan finds one first, but not as many people want Rhienlys -- besides the fact he has a degree in history (not so useful in the town), those that would want him are a little off-put by how he was fired. 

Rhienlys is surprised by how cool with their relationship Lorgan’s family is. Lorgan’s siblings -- Mereya, Graffin, and Weslar -- want to hang out with him as often as possible, and the entire family welcomes him. It’s a strange feeling, but an undeniably good one too. With harvest just around the corner, Rhienlys finally decides to take the plunge. “I want to send my brothers a card saying that we are together.” He isn’t surprised by Lorgan’s enthusiastic agreement.

What does surprise Rhienlys is the fact that they get a response only after the end of the festival. Rhienlys would not have expected Ragaeron to be so considerate (though there is a good chance the consideration regarding the festival is all Saenyra’s). According to the letter, he’s truly out of the family now.

Rhienlys doesn’t cry or send angry messages when he gets the reply. He says nothing, and while part of him is saddenned to have been kicked out of his own family, he’s also relieved to be free of his connections with his brothers. He does smile when he receives an e-mail a few days later from Saenyra apologizing for her part in the response and saying that he’s still family as far as he’s concerned.

It’s a different kind of life, slower and more amiable, and Rhienlys knows that he’d be happy in one of the Seven Hells so long as Lorgan were there with him. Here, while he struggles with his job hunt, he is more than happy. 

Spring rolls around, and so too does the anniversary of when they first met. Rhienlys gets Lorgan a bouquet of roses, hand-picked by himself on a day while Lorgan was at work. Lorgan’s gift to Rhienlys is what is truly significant. A silver ring, and a proposal. 

Lorgan gets down on his knees and whispers, as they sit and watch the stars overhead while on a camping trip in the country, “Marry me, Rhi.” Rhienlys can’t agree quickly or enthusiastically enough, and they still end up kissing and then fucking there on that picnic blanket beneath the stars.

Everyone is ecstatic with the news, and Rhienlys grins as if he’s on top of the world (he thinks he must truly be, to be this lucky). He’s happier than before, and he and Lorgan slip away as often as they can manage just to be with each other. But even when they are with others, they are together too.

With a renewed vigour, Rhienlys looks for a job that actually has something to do with his chosen topic. To his surprise, he actually gets a job at his old university. He’s a professor of archaeology. The university is too far away for them to keep living with Lorgan’s family, so it is with tear-filled eyes that they leave. 

Only a month later, when they have a bit more money, they have the wedding. It’s a small affair, and Lorgan’s family, Saenyra (who looks at Mereya -- Lorgan’s sister -- intently), and a couple of friends from the dig and after. And at the end of it, Rhienlys Targaryen is Rhienlys Tymber. 

The reception is a great party, though, and most attendees leave well and truly drunk. The guests leave the following day but not before Saenyra has exchanged numbers with Mereya and regaled them with news from the dig. 

Being married doesn’t feel much different, they find, other than that it has reconfirmed what they’ve always known: that they will belong with each other for all eternity. They love it though, and the words, “I am his and he is mine,” echo through them to the very core of their souls. They are so familiar, and somehow, they know that those words have been true all along.

Only a year passes before they decide to adopt. There are these twins, Gendred and Miara, that they decide to adopt. They have the money, and the kids look so much like the pair of them that they can’t help but adopt both. Besides, they both recognize that it would be cruel to separate the twins. 

Gendred and Miara are sweet kids. Gendred is quiet and obstinate as anything, and Miara is sweet and spunky, and Lorgan and Rhienlys adore them both more than anything else save each other. They’re happy, and it makes them so happy to watch their kids learn, It’s a warmth, the type that comes from within and makes all the horrors of the world seem okay.

Gendred and Miara are four when Rhienlys gets an email that absolutely stuns him. He isn’t even able to speak for minutes after he receives it. The email is from Ragaeron. Rhienlys assumed that he would never again hear from either of his brothers, but now, he is, and he really isn’t sure if he’s all that pleased. 

His brother wants to reconnect with him and make amends. Rhienlys doesn’t know if he wants to make amends -- he’s happier without his brothers than he ever was with them. But Lorgan just gives him a look that clearly says that he thinks Rhienlys should do it, and by the Seven, Rhienlys can deny Lorgan nothing. So he emails his brother back and arranges for a meeting the next week. 

They meet in a pub on Shipbreaker Bay, Rhienlys having taken the train there, accompanied by both kids and Lorgan. Ragaeron is different from how Rhienlys remembers. His eyes have a new weariness to them, and his ruddy skin has a sickly hue to it. “Are you alright?” Rhienlys can’t believe this is the first thing he’s asking his brother, but somehow, it is.

“I’m dying,” Ragaeron grumbles, curling his upper lip.

“So you decided that you didn’t want to go out of this world being utterly horrid at familial relations?” Rhienyls guesses, and Ragaeron glares at him while nodding. “Right. Well. Lorgan you know, and these are our kids, Gendred and Miara. Oh, and I’m Rhienlys Tymber now, not Targaryen.” 

He watches Ragaeron’s face carefully, waiting for his volatile temper to make itself apparent. It doesn’t. “I should not have disowned you.”

It’s not an apology, and it’s not enough to heal the hurt, but it’s a definite start. They end up talking for much longer than Rhienlys expected mostly about what they’ve done since, and by the time they’re done, the last train north has already left. They stay the night in an inn across the way, and by chance they are given the room next to Ragaeron. 

They sleep well that night, the moon and stars smiling on them. They do not smile so brightly at Ragaeron. Rhienlys wakes to the sound of a siren, and he’s instantly up, careful to make himself presentable. He leaves their room just in time to see Ragaeron carried out in a stretcher. He curses and sends a text to Lorgan before following the medical officers down to the ambulance.

His brother dies on the way to the hospital, but Rhienlys shed his last tears for Ragaeron long ago. Instead, all he feels is gladness, a feeling that somehow is warm and tingly. It confuses him at first, but then he realizes why he’s feeling it: he made up with his brother before his death. And that was good, and more than he could possibly hope to have with the brother who had been dead to him for years. 

He and Lorgan leave the next day, not wanting to go after such news, and when they get back up to Sea Dragon Point, they decide to adopt a third kid, Edrian. It seems fitting with everything that happens, and the twins adore their new sibling. The new kid is sweet, and while quiet like Gendred, he is also spunky like Miara, and gets along with both excellently. 

There’s a new sort of peace for Rhienlys as well, and it is entirely because he met with Ragaeron like Lorgan suggested. It gives him some satisfaction also to see the bonds his kids have and to know that they won’t end up as messed up as he, his brothers, and sister had. He and Lorgan, though he would never have thought it possible, are even closer than they have been before, and though they do argue occasionally about things -- their children’s schooling and so forth, they very often seem to be of one mind, and the sex after such arguments makes the arguing worth it. 

It’s only later that year that Mereya and Saenyra finally marry. It’s a huge festivity, and the kids play with Graffin’s, so Lorgan and Rhienlys sneak off to a corner on their own. The moon shines down on them, the last colors of sunset fading from the sky, and Rhienlys kisses Lorgan softly, the kiss not so much a premise for sex as an “I love you.” 

And standing here, on the edge of the celebration with Lorgan, Rhienlys knows that just this once, everything will be okay, and for the first time, there is true hope for a future.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> And . . .it's over. I hope this last chapter lived up to expectations, and I hope you enjoyed it. All feedback is loved and appreciated.
>
>> A Virto Musae  
> By the Virtue of the Muse


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